


Dusk of Summer

by ReginaCorda



Series: Dusk of Summer [1]
Category: Fleurmione - Fandom, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, Eventual Fluff, F/F, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2014-04-17
Packaged: 2018-01-06 07:21:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 86,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1104034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReginaCorda/pseuds/ReginaCorda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dusk of Summer takes place during Hermione's fourth year at Hogwarts, the same year that Fleur Delacour visits the school in hope to compete in the Triwizard Tournament, and the same year they begin their love affair. This is an alternate universe, so possibilities are limitless. I must apologize for the terrible summary, but there's quite a bit more information inside.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A First Glance

**Author's Note:**

> Hello readers! I would like to begin by thanking you for checking in on this fic and, hopefully, continuing your exploration of it. Before we get into the meat of the work, I also want to give some insight and some shout-outs. To WhistleTheSilver, for her unbelievable work of Witnessed Here in Time and Blood and Ivory and Horn. It was her incredible imagination and literature that inspired me to create my own. I highly recommend her tales, for they are certainly what this pairing, and the realm of lesbian fanfiction, desperately needs and it is my most humble wish to hold the smallest candle’s light in comparison to her work. Secondly, I would like to recognize Dashboard Confessional for their song that helped inspire this work.  
> In writing this fic, I wanted to shine a new light on Fleur Delacour, which will be extremely obvious in the first chapter, and will continue to be highlighted throughout. Instead of having a bitchy, self-righteous attitude, she’s actually down-to-earth and misunderstood as her beauty makes her either an enemy, for fear of losing boy/girlfriends due to her extreme splendor, or for use as a parasitic host of others (you know, the whole ‘well, I know Fleur Delacour’ *sassy girl hair-flip* thing). I took full advantage of the little-known Veela culture, basically created my own, as you will see later. I also allow Fleur to become good friends with Harry and Ron, although the latter will have quite the time adjusting. Fleur’s pride will play an enormous role in this series. I also make Krum out to be very territorial and predatory towards Hermione although nothing happens between the pair. There is quite a bit of bashing here, mostly Hermione telling Ron off, but of course, I had to throw in Malfoy’s usual bull, and some intense rivalry between Fleur and Krum. Some events will be completely different, but that’s what makes it fun. For example, the routine of Beauxbaton’s will focus solely on ballet rather than pretending to fawn over students, even though I don’t mention it much, I focus more on Fleur’s internal thoughts. I tried to work in Fleur’s accent, but that ended up being really irritating and just blah. So I ignored that; although I do indicate that she does in fact have an accent, we’re going to read her dialog normally because I hated having to go back and make sure every ‘h’ wasn't there. I also allowed Fleur to be much more successful during the Tournament, mostly due to the Veela heritage and the knowledge that comes with it. Another thing to note is the fact I make Hermione much more analytical than I felt she was in the books. For example, when she first feels the stirrings of attraction, she over-analyzes her reactions and thoughts, as you will see later.  
> Dusk of Summer will take place in the Goblet of Fire, Hermione and Fleur’s relation will begin here, and continue in a series. I use a mix between facts in the books, movies, and my own twist. The first chapter may seem rushed, but I’ll explain my version of the Veela and their mates later on. Still interested? Sweet. Let’s jump in.  
> DISCLAIMER: I do not own any part of the Harry Potter books, movies, or characters, much to my immense dismay. That privilege and honor belongs to JK Rowling and Warner Bros, neither of which do I hold any personal affiliation other than adoration. I just play around and make happen what I believe should have been. I will also borrow excerpts and mirror some styles from great poets and writers. It is to be noted that these excerpts will be cited after a chapter in which the excerpt is used and that I have only the utmost respect and gratitude for these brilliant gifts bestowed to the public by those talented scribes.

“And now, please join me in extending a warm welcome to the lovely ladies from Beauxbaton’s Academy of Magic and their Headmistress, Madame Maxime!” Dumbledore’s voice easily pierced the heavy oak doors, giving the blue-clad girls their cue. Fleur Delacour snapped herself from the awe the huge corridor had struck her with, hurriedly taking her place as the women filed into the Great Hall, beginning their routine.

Fleur spaced her steps as practiced, performing like a confident athlete. Her lithe body was happy to comply with her wishes, such grace rested in her movements few believed it was possible for anyone to look so perfect, until of course, they laid eyes upon this incarnate of perfection itself. The blonde moved with angelic grace and almost military precision; nearly every set of eyes were locked on her, either wide with admiration, or narrowed with envy. The Frenchwoman was used to such looks; being part-Veela, it was to be expected. Even the meager friends she had were only her companions for their own benefit. All she truly had was her younger sister, whom looked nearly identical, except she bore more traces of their father, but had yet to reach that troubling time when the Veela beauty turned her abundant friends either into parasites or enemies.

Fleur’s outward beauty was enough to make anyone stare, and because of this blessing-curse, never had there been one who could truly get to know her; the _real_ her, the kindred heart that clenched at the sight of baby animals and the sounds of children laughing, or loved to stare at the setting sun, being captivated by its warmth and beauty even on the coldest days. Never being witnessed in this light, Fleur had learned to harden that heart so she wouldn’t be hurt by the rejections of other females, her hopeful spirit never dying, instead living in a nerveless type of limbo. There would come a day, she knew, when that tomb would crumble, when her mate’s heart would revive her own. When someone would see her for who she was, not what her blood made her. When she could finally share sunsets and kittens playing, bathe herself in intelligent conversation, rather than be surrounded by either drool or jealously. That one would be her only. Or, perhaps, she may happen upon someone who already knew their mate at this strange new school, someone whose heart would not relinquish a beat at her passage, but alas, she would be surrounded by peers who were just as young as or younger than herself, hardly enough time to have begun the search for their counterparts. She knew it was a feeble hope to have.

She thought all this as she performed, the movements so rehearsed that they were second nature; a habit of twirls her body had fallen into. She bowed deeply to the school body as they finished; her eyes meeting a bright, beautiful brown gaze on the way back up. These eyes stared, not with envy or lust, but with true admiration and intellect, seeming to look beyond the routine and into the real art of ballet.

A blush rose to the pale cheeks, making the girl dressed in red and gold robes look most adorable. The brown eyes broke away, a sheepish smile crawling its way over her lips. But Fleur knew to whom those eyes belonged long before the girl could hide behind her mane of auburn hair. Oh, yes, she had seen her face in numerous places. It was Hermione Granger, the heroine of the Golden Trio.

The Veela turned away as the girls were directed to a table called Ravenclaw, but cast another look over her shoulder, catching the girl gazing after her again. Fleur strode to the seat beside her sister, folding her hands together, studying the wood grain patterns of the table absently. Something had changed. Something had been given, and then taken away, but being offered to take back again. But for the life of her, she didn’t know what it was.

 

From across the Great Hall, Hermione looked down at emblem of the Gryffindor lion, her stomach rolling slowly. She, too, felt as though something was missing, but not entirely absent. She didn’t know what had happened, what was lost, or what had possibly been gained. She felt as though hunger had gnawed her to lightheadedness, although she found the idea of food revolting. Another loud booming of the doors drew her from her thoughts.

A band of males, introduced as the Durmstrang Bulgarians, entered after the women had been seated. They marched with measured steps; staves struck the ground at rhythmic intervals, sending sparks flying. A tall bearded man followed a surprisingly large young man, instantly recognized as the hailed Seeker, Viktor Krum. As he passed, dark eyes found Hermione’s, predatorily studying her. A shiver threatened to run down her spine, but she refused to allow any discomfort to show through. She mirrored his stare with her own intense scrutiny; her brows knit together, eyes narrowed slightly. He continued, eventually breaking eye contact, the ghost of a smirk on his lips. Another Bulgarian summoned a phoenix of fire, leaping flames and a wave of heat trailed the beast as it swooped around the Great Hall, disintegrating with a shrill cry before the Headmaster of Hogwarts.

 

“Now that we’re all sorted and seated, please allow me to explain why we are gathered here.” Dumbledore intoned. He gestured to a cloaked object behind him. Barty Crouch came to his side, impassive expression plastered to his face. He removed the cloak, revealing a goblet that held a blue flame after the covering was removed. The sounds of cutlery and plates being pushed back echoed as the pupils’ attention was stolen by the unveiled object.

The ancient wizard continued after giving the student body a few moments to appraise the goblet with wonder and curiosity. “Hogwarts has been chosen to host a legendary event, one that has been neglected for years. This event is known as the Triwizard Tournament. This contest consists of three tasks, tasks that will challenge and test the courage, valor, and survivability of the contenders. In order to enter, a student must write his or her name a piece of parchment and cast it into the Goblet of Fire…” Murmurs broke out over the student body, muffling the rest of Dumbledore’s speech, excited faces and worried glances were cast around the great room. The proud Gryffindors raised their chins, the Slytherins jerked their thumbs at the object with glee, the Ravenclaws began their intense scrutiny of the object, and the Hufflepuffs ducked their heads shyly, insisting that another should seek the Goblet’s acceptance. The Durmstrang males rolled their shoulders back and held out their chests, while the Beauxbaton females narrowed their eyes and straightened their spines at the accepted challenge.

Hermione narrowed her eyes in hate and disgust, wondering how her gentle headmaster could allow such dangers to be brought to his school. She listened intently, hoping, praying, for rules, for standards in order to enter.

“However, there _are_ rules. Mr. Crouch, if you will.” Silence stole over the room once more.

“With the dangers of said tournament taken into serious consideration by the Ministry of Magic, it has been ordered that no student under the age of seventeen shall be allowed to put forth his or her name into the Goblet of Fire, therefore, shall not be permitted to compete in the Triwizard Tournament.”

Groans and protests were thrown forth, hateful, angry words spewing from young, would-be possible contenders. Hermione sighed thankfully. The boys were safe. Perhaps this year would finally be one that passed uneventfully. She was ready to graduate, to begin her life, but she was incredibly relieved that it was their fourth year, and that she herself was only fifteen, thus saved from having to accept any challenge taunting her. She looked out over the student body, studying faces carefully, seeing who was more upset than others and who wished Crouch dead, simply for being the bearer of their legal limitations.

Hermione turned her gaze down at the small, half-filled and largely untouched plate before her, stomach even more unsettled after Dumbledore had finished speaking

“Blimey…” Ron sighed in front of her, a dreamy tone in his voice and a clouded film over his eyes. “She’s gorgeous, ain’t she? Just look at her! All blonde hair and blue eyes… And those curves! I tell you, I’d love to―”

“Ronald!” Hermione snapped, turning to the boy incredulously. “God, could you stop drooling all over yourself like a dog for three bloody seconds to appreciate what she really is?”

“What? I said she’s gorgeous―”

“I explained this to you at the Quidditch Cup, but, again, you were too busy drooling over them.” She said in exasperation. “A Veela, Ron, she’s a _Veela_.” Ron looked at her blankly, drawing a sigh from the girl’s lips and again, she explained what she knew. “The Veela are a very secretive culture. No one outside the Veela tribes knows much of anything. They’re descendants of sirens, such as mermaids, and that’s why they’re so beautiful and alluring, even to both sexes.”

“Then why aren’t you affected?” He asked; his first and probably last intelligent question for the year.

 Hermione shrugged. “I have better things to worry about, I suppose; school, exams, University, my future career, the list goes on.”

 Ron rolled his eyes, gaze going back to the Veela. “Blimey, ‘Mione, I don’t see how you can think about school with _her_ in your line of sight… but you are a _girl_ , after all. I suppose you’re just jealous.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, sighing heavily. Normally she would have fought back, insisted that she wasn’t jealous, which was the case. But instead, remained silent, uncharacteristically unfocused. She poked and prodded at her food, stomach unbelievably empty but giving no sign of accepting nourishment.

“C’mon, ‘Mione,” Harry whispered, nudging the brunette gently as Ron’s back was turned to them so he could gaze after the girl. “Let him fantasize like the schoolboy he is.” Hermione cracked a smile.

Eventually, his stomach overpowered his guttered mind and dug into the feast, joining conversations two or three words at a time around mouthfuls. Half an hour passed before Hermione announced that she was retiring to bed, many other students heading off to their quarters as well. The boys bid her sweet dreams, promising that they’d evade trouble till morning.

She stepped though the double-doors, students bustling around, fighting to reach their respective house towers. She paused for a moment, her feet taking another course. It was a familiar one, one she had trod countless times during her years at Hogwarts. The only place she truly felt welcomed and free, surrounded by history and the scent of ink-soaked parchment, even the sharp smell of dust welcomed her upon entrance and grew more potent as she continued on her way to the quiet, secluded corner she so dearly loved.  As she turned the final corner, a flurry of blue robes collided with her, French curses fell from an accented French tongue, spewing apologizes for both language and inelegance.

“Mon Dieu! I must beg your pardon, mademoiselle. A rug didn’t appreciate my stepping on it, I lost my balance!” A tall blonde, blue-clad witch exclaimed as loud as a library whisper could allow, trying to steady herself and Hermione.

“No, no, I understand. That one used to hate me as well.” Hermione chuckled, righting her robes and looking up into crystalline blue of the other witch’s eyes, amazed at their proximity. Her cheeks burned as she stepped away, seeing that the one who steadied her was none other than the talented blonde who’d caught her staring. Recognition flashed in the blonde’s eyes.

“Ah, you were the brunette so entranced by our performance, non? More so with admiration than envy or lust?” The other witch’s accent was very pronounced and inflated some words, but easily interpreted by the Gryffindor.

Hermione nodded, stubbornly fighting her blush. She had been entranced, more than she should have allowed herself. “It was incredible.” She replied casually, but genuinely. “I’ve always admired the art, but never had the body for it.”

The blonde tsked, stooping to retrieve Hermione’s dropped items. “No one is born with the body for ballet, but the heart for it. I can teach you if you like.”

Hermione shook her head rapidly, laying a hand defensively on her things in the other woman’s arms. “I don’t even know your name.”

“I must beg your pardon a million times! Fleur Delacour.” She proclaimed, handing the books back to the Gryffindor gently.  “There is no need for your introduction, Miss Granger.” She said, softer now.

“Hermione, please,” She replied sheepishly, shifting her load to her left arm, offering her hand. Fleur looked at the offered hand, confused. Realization dawned on her after several long moments. _Of course! She is English._

Fleur took her hand gingerly, unsure of the known but unpracticed gesture, even more unsure as to why the brunette seemed determined to break her fingers, but squeezed back to ease the surprising pressure. When Hermione released her hand, she leaned in and placed a chaste kiss on Hermione’s cheek, chuckling at the blush on her face when she pulled away. The room felt humid and hot to Hermione, but the Frenchwoman seemed perfectly at ease and unaware of the temperature change.

“That is how we say ‘hello’ and ‘good-bye’ in France, Miss Granger. Surely, someone of your intellect knows of our customs, yes?”

Hermione nodded, snapping herself from the shock. “Of course, the French, I just… wasn’t prepared.” _Come on pull yourself together, Granger!_ Hermione stumbled, searching for a way to get out of the suddenly cramped library without offending the kind witch she’d just met. How desperately she yearned for her private corner…“Well, it is getting late, I’d best be off.” The English witch said, wincing when the clock only read 8:45.

“Oh, please, stay and talk a moment? There are so many questions I would love to ask you.”

Hermione fought back another sigh. She wasn’t used to celebrity status, and certainly didn’t want the attention, but she couldn’t bring herself to reject the bright, curious eyes of the blonde. “I suppose a few wouldn’t hurt. Would you mind walking with me? I really mustn’t say long.” She found herself wincing inwardly. The whole reason she’d come to the library was to rid herself of tension but now she was giving up her haven to answer questions from a foreign student so that it’d be as short and painless as possible. Her longing for the quiet corner intensified.

The blonde witch smiled kindly and asked Hermione to lead; as it was by mistake she ended up in the room full of books to begin with. The pair exited the library; Fleur occasionally struggled to keep up with the brunette as she was briskly led through unfamiliar passageways. While they walked, Fleur asked her numerous questions, which Hermione initially answered with either ‘yes’ or ‘no’ but soon began blabbering on and on about which University she wished to attend, and what career she wanted to pursue. The French witch never once interrupted her, smiling kindly and her steps stuttered less frequently as the pair’s stride had slowed, wishing to draw out their conversation.

“Have you ever considered being an Auror?” Fleur asked.

Hermione laughed heartily. “Oh, no, not me, I hardly have what it takes. Besides, I don’t want to end up like Professor Moody.” She whispered the last statement, earning a chuckle from the Frenchwoman.

“I think you could do it, even make it look easy.” Fleur offered. “For someone with your intellect, it would hardly be a challenge.”

Hermione was flattered but rolled her eyes dismissively. They arrived at the foot of the staircase that ascended to the Gryffindor Tower, and Hermione turned towards her new acquaintance with an apology on her lips.

“I’m sorry the conversation was so one-sided. Whenever anyone asks me questions, they usually pertain to Harry. Perhaps, if it isn’t too much trouble, we could get together again and I won’t blabber so much?”

Fleur nodded with a smile. “I would like that. Tomorrow, in the library?”

Hermione grinned happily. “Yes, that sounds lovely.”

The Frenchwoman’s eyes lit up. “Wonderful. After dinner?”

Hermione nodded. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Fleur. I hope you have a good night.”

Fleur leaned in once more and kissed Hermione’s cheek gently. “And I you, Miss Granger. Bonsoir,” The blonde turned and began walking down the corridor, following the noise of students’ voices in the Great Hall round the corner. Hermione stood rooted to the spot, unconsciously stroking her cheek with her right hand. She stared at the flagstone Fleur had stood upon, her brows knitted together in thought.

 _How strange…_ she thought. _Perhaps she’s a full-blooded Veela._ She willed her heavy feet to climb the stairs, questioning her knees’ ability to hold her steady. Her body finally realized the Veela’s thrall, perhaps it had been assisted by the proximity, but the effects harbored in her limbs and joints as she steadily made her way to the Gryffindor Tower, where she quickly put out any and all thought of the strange delayed effects of Fleur.

Upon arriving in the Gryffindor Common Room, Hermione settled by the fire with Ginny, books spread out all round them, as Ginny, unusually attentive, wished to review last year’s material. Hermione’s ginger tomcat leapt from her lap when Ron stormed in, face redder than his hair. It hadn’t been half an hour since she’d left the Great Hall, and they had promised to avoid trouble.

“What’s wrong, Ron?” Ginny asked, looking up from her studies. Her brother paid no attention to her, angry eyes locked on Hermione. Harry hurried in behind him, apologetic look already on his face.

“Bloody hell, Hermione!” Ron bellowed. Hermione’s back went ridged and her chin lifted, every indication that a challenge had been accepted. Ginny also tensed beside her, eyes narrowing suspiciously. The two rose to their feet, the books lying neglected and discarded at their feet. “That French bitch _kissed_ you? Who the hell does she think she is? Just because she’s Veela does not give her a right to kiss _you!_ Don’t even deny it, I saw―”

 _Silencio!”_  Hermione cut him off, brandishing her wand, effectively silencing everyone in the room. Spectators had joined, and she didn’t need any more voices of unreason. Ginny nudged her gently, and Hermione brandished her wand again, relinquishing the spell’s effect on the other female. Never before had she used a silencing charm to fight an argument, but Ron’s accusations were preposterous and could not be tolerated. He couldn’t listen to reason because he spoke too loudly to hear it himself. Hermione was doing him a favor. She pinched the bridge of her nose as if to hold back a headache before she spoke.

“For the love of God, she’s _French_ , Ronald!” Hermione shrieked, resisting the urge to grin when she saw Ron’s jaw flapping. “That’s her custom! Don’t think it didn’t surprise the hell out of me, because it did! It’s not like she had her tongue down my throat!” Her own use of the vulgar expression made her yearn to cringe and left a foul taste in her mouth, but she refused to allow him any satisfaction.

“Even if she had kissed her like that, what would it matter to you, Ron?” Ginny asked from Hermione’s side, her voice taking the same timbre as her mother. “She’s not an object for you to protect or manipulate. Neither of them are! Hermione or, what’s the girl’s name?”

“Fleur.” Hermione said quietly, glaring at Ron.

“Yes, that’s it. Neither Hermione nor Fleur are your property to control or contort. If Fleur chases Hermione or vice versa, who cares! At least you don’t have to ask, ‘what does she have that I don’t?’ because the answer is quite clear, you sexist, condescending, narcissistic dolt!” Ginny turned her back to her dumbstruck, speechless brother, a dangerous glint in her eye. A flick of her wand sent her books back into her bags as she gathered them up.

“Anything else you’d like to add?”

Hermione shook her head, returning her wand to her robes. “Good night, everyone. I trust you’ll sleep soundly.”

 

That night, after the study session and a more in depth recall of the blonde, Hermione lay in her bed, staring at the moon in her window. The blonde Veela’s face remained in her mind’s eye, giving birth to the question of the jelly-like substance her knees became when she bumped into her. When she’d kissed her cheek. When the unfamiliar heat rushed down her spine upon the first glance at her. Admiration and lust had taken hold of Hermione. For the first time, she didn’t understand herself. Was that the power of Veela thrall? Why could she speak clearly to the Veela without stuttering, but feel such a pull towards her? Or was this some silly schoolgirl admiration just now rearing its head? Or could it be more…? Though she’d never truly felt attraction to a male before, could that mean she was, indeed, what so many shunned and hated for reasons that were beyond her comprehension?

Hermione tossed and turned in her bed, trying to delve into the secrets her subconscious so expertly hid. Strange images and thoughts never relented as she so desperately tried to free her mind from the blonde’s unknowing and seemingly unintentional clutches. Fleur seemed to be very sweet, and certainly meant no harm in kissing her cheek, but Hermione couldn’t help but think that there had to be some ulterior motive behind her actions, (perhaps some desire to use her to speak of Harry as so many had done already) nor could she bring herself to cancel the appointment already made to see her again.

She had never been faced with these questions, or any like them before. She never asked herself if she was heterosexual, simply because she didn’t care; she had too many other things on her mind. School was always her first priority, keeping herself and the boys alive had overshadowed that at times. But of course, that in itself depended heavily on her schooling, always motivating her to study harder and longer. But even surrounded by her studies, she knew something was missing. Her mind, usually so vigilantly organized and structured, lost its focus and all sorts of possibilities poured through the open cracks in her concentration. Possibilities that had never been considered leapt into the realm of near-reality. Possibilities of love and happiness and futures and plans were quickly squeezing into the already cluttered shelves of her conscious and, unbeknownst to her, unconscious mind. Her mind was a scientific one indeed, and always gave each possibility validation and fair chance. But this? This chance that she could harbor such feelings for a mere acquaintance, for a _woman?_

She plagued herself with questions she’d never asked before, questions she’d never had a reason to ask before. Could another female make her happy? Could another _human_ make her happy, or was she better off alone? Crookshanks’ companionship satisfied her plenty, and at times he could be quite the furry nuisance himself. Would a female require more attention than her pretentious feline? Would she have time to give her, or anyone for that matter, the time and attention they deserved? Would they interfere with her studies? Would they understand the need for such strict habits, knowing that it could cost the whole bloody world if one spell was incorrectly summoned?

Hermione threw herself onto her back, staring up at the ceiling. A charm had been cast so that nebulas formed and stars died for her to watch and ponder. The beautiful Cat’s Eye now displayed itself among a field of stars. The Veela’s eyes wandered back to the center of Hermione’s mind. The deep, beautiful blue, set with a wreath of long, dark lashes upon a canvas of pale skin. She did not recall the orbs with lust, but with an unquenchable, curious hunger. Were they the orbs of the ancient sirens from whence the Veela came? Into which time and dimension would they take her if she stared deep enough? How old was the Veela’s soul? What made it soar? What made it weep?

Hermione sighed, watching as the Cat’s Eye morphed into the Mystic Mountain. _Surly she wants to make a friend while she’s here… that’s the main point of this bloody Tournament. International cooperation and all that… perhaps she’s just as curious as I am, perhaps she's just as lonely as I am. Perhaps she just wants to learn… surely she’s not looking for love here. Surely she doesn’t fancy_ me _of all people._ She threw herself onto her side again, facing the window.An irritated sigh lifted her breasts and shoulders. She didn’t want to think. She didn’t want to have an opinion. But she didn’t want to lie either. The blonde witch enticed her, prodding at her curious appetite for knowledge. She settled to believe that her lust was merely for the knowledge of the unknown that she found so tempting.

 _Stop over-analyzing things, Granger._ She told herself firmly. _It means nothing._ Even as the thoughts were formed, a small, mute part of her knew there was something deeper, and the pit of her stomach knotted around the concept of the Veela. Something her conscious mind demanded to dismiss, but unknowingly was bound and determined to uncover as she somehow found sleep. 


	2. A Sacred Haven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Just a little confession; I am an American... so I apologize now for any incorrect mannerisms, past or future. This one's rather short, so the third chapter should be posted soon too. Hope you all enjoy it and feel free to leave comments!!!  
> Much love,  
> RC

Hermione woke to bright light intensifying her throbbing head. She pulled a pillow over her face, any amount of luminosity or resonance made every blood vessel in her pounding skull scream in protest. She groaned into her cushion, deciding to stay in bed for the day. Silently, she thanked every spirit that it was Saturday.

Hermione wove in and out of sleep, breaking into tears when the burden of pain weighed too heavily on her. It took hours for the normally thick-skinned witch to draw herself from her bed, only to stumble to her cauldron. There, she brewed a strong tonic to ward off the pain so she could rest.

As she slept, Ginny knocked at her door several times, but upon hearing no response, worriedly unlocked her door and peeped in. The resting witch stirred not, but breathed deeply, her jaw slack after the hours of abuse it had endured. Hesitantly, the redhead entered and tasted what remained of the potion in the kettle.

Realization struck her, and she left as silently as she came in. It was no secret that Hermione suffered at the influence of her own subconscious in her sleep some nights. Her jaw clamped suddenly, her aching teeth pounding together again. Ginny knew Hermione would be in no mood for company, and went about telling others not to disturb her, locking the door behind her.

 

* * *

 

 

Fleur woke to buttery sunlight, and a small, warm mass snuggling its way under the covers. She lifted the blankets to find a pair of bright blue eyes looking up at her from underneath a mop of silver-blonde hair.

“Ah, Gabrielle, why must you wake me at dawn?” She chided her sister gently in French.

“Because it’s my job!” The youngest Delacour piped cheerfully. Fleur sighed heavily, rolling out of bed, beginning the morning routine before breakfast. She emerged from the Beauxbaton carriage, showered and dressed, with an eager Gabrielle tugging her along.

The morning was gray and dismal, a stereotypical English dawn. Rays of sun tried to wriggle through the thick clouds, casting feeble light onto the hills of Hogwarts. Dew stuck fast to the grasses and tightly closed morning glories, seeming to wish for more sleep as the sun was refused passage from the clouds. Fleur sighed heavily. This was nothing like France, whose mornings seemed to burst forth from the dark. The French sun almost never needed the cloud’s permission to shine down on the earth. The French morning glories never begged for more sleep, they too, seemed to burst from slumber. A wave of homesickness overcame the blonde, as she thought of her homeland, how happy it was to receive the morning, and how reluctantly it gave way to dusk.

Even still, the Veela found beauty in the dreary, dismal day. As musty and cold as it was, she still respected and found a particular splendor of England, of the enormous, rustic castle whose spires seemed to pierce the overhanging masses of gray. Hogwarts' students scoffed at her, seeing the drawn, narrow-eyed expression she wore, as though it meant she was too good for their overcast weather. Many often mistook that expression for irritability and anger, although it usually meant deep thought, as though trying to unravel a difficult problem or untie a tangled knot in a necklace chain.

They arrived at the Great Hall, already filling with early birds, unsurprisingly most of which Fleur had come to know as Ravenclaw students. Her beloved sister skipped away to the table filled with blue-clad women, Fleur’s watchful eyes ever weary of her, until she was safe with other Beauxbaton students and away from the narrow-eyed, green and silver-clad Hogwarts pupils. Only then, did she seat herself at a table laden with French breakfast pastries, the emblem of a lion intricately carved and painted on its surface.

A newspaper lay discarded on the table she chose; now in the hands of the Frenchwoman, it was read again, a few crumbs of croissant freckled its words. In the first article, Rita Skeeter butchered some poor, probably innocent young woman, who apparently had an affair with a man (and his wife) of political power.

Fleur sighed and skipped over that page of the cursed woman’s blubbering, far more interested in the latest news that actually mattered. A tap on her shoulder drew her from her reading. A redheaded boy stared at her mutely, his face flushing. A younger girl, obviously his kin, spoke for him.

“My apologies, but you’re in his seat. He would speak for himself, but his voice has been taken as a repercussion of his rude behavior last night.” She piped cheerfully, while muscles in the boy’s jaw clenched and unclenched. He sulked silently, waiting for Fleur to rise.

The blonde laughed, gathering up her papers and removing herself from the boy’s seat. “You are his sister, no?”

“Indeed.” The girl rolled her eyes. “If I knew the spell, he’d been mute his whole life. He and the rest of my brothers.”

Fleur glanced at Gabrielle, wondering how siblings could be so cross with one another. But she had no brother, so she left her ignorance to her inexperience. “I see. May I sit here? The croissants are delectable.”

The redhead sighed. “That’s Harry’s seat, I’m afraid. You can sit next to me though.” She offered. Fleur smiled, thanking her and seating herself again.

“What is your name?” The blonde asked.

“Ginny. Ginny Weasley.” The redhead replied. “And yours?”

“Fleur Delacour. It is a pleasure to have your acquaintance, Mademoiselle Weasley.”

Ginny’s eyes widened. “Ah. So you are the one.”

“The one?”

“The breath-taking blonde reason why my brother is a mute imbecile.” She glanced briefly at Ron. “Well, he’s an imbecile on his own. But you’re the reason why he’s mute.” The silent boy reddened further, obviously fuming. The Veela couldn’t tell if he was frustrated with his inability to speak or if it was due to her thrall, and looked back at his sister, who seemed quite unaffected.

“I don’t follow…”

Ginny resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “You kissed a girl’s cheek last night. The cheek of my brother’s controlling obsession. He… doesn’t know much about women.”

“Hermione? It is custom! You English… your strange shaking of hands… That is more acceptable? I did not mean to harm or startle her…”

Ginny chuckled quietly. “Hermione and I understood perfectly. He, however, believed that you were making a move. But we set him straight, Hermione and I did. Poor thing can’t come down this morning, actually. Ground her teeth all night, she’ll probably stay in bed with terrible headaches. I need to bring her something to eat.” She rose, gathering a few breakfast foods.

“I, too, grind my teeth, and my papa has an incredible potion that helps tremendously. I know the recipe, but he always sends me to school with a phial he made himself. If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I’d give it to her as a gift. Someone like her won’t appreciate laying in bed all day.” She said.

Ginny’s brow arched, but she nodded nonetheless. Fleur sprinted away, back to the Beauxbaton carriage. Of course, the cursed item eluded her, delaying her longer than she wished. An _accio_ brought the object to her hands, at last bursting forth from her suitcase, thankfully unbroken. She sprinted back, taking long, leaping strides. Out of breath, she stumbled to a stop at the Gryffindor table.

“Here…” She panted, offering the phial to her. She drew a long breath to calm herself before speaking again. “Just a sip should do. She may need to be gentle on herself for today, but the effects should kick in rather fast.”

Ginny took the glass object from her, inspecting the swirling purple liquid carefully. “Thank you, Fleur… I’m sure she’ll appreciate this.”

The Veela nodded, smiling at the redhead. “I’m happy to help. It also prevents the headaches from beginning in the first place. If she’s feeling stressed, tell her to take some before bed.”

Ginny smiled warmly, nodding back before turning to leave after giving the Veela another ‘thank you.’ Fleur finally allowed herself to sit, drinking a glass of water painfully slowly, silently damning the manners that had been beaten into her. A dark-haired boy now sat at the table with the unnamed redhead.

After her breathing had been strictly controlled, Fleur smiled at them both, outstretching her hand awkwardly, the same feeble hope leapt within her as she thought, perhaps, one of them could respond despite the thrall. “Hello, my name is Fleur Delacour.” Neither wizard responded, but the dark haired one extended his hand and shook hers gently, but firmly. The redhead gave a dark look to the other wizard, who responded with a shrug.

“You must be afflicted with the curse as well, Monsieur Potter?” The pale cheeks flushed slightly, a nod following. “And I suppose you are Monsieur Ronald Weasley, oui?” Fleur offered her hand to his as well. His eyes remained locked on the table, studying the wood grain angrily, a deep flush on his cheeks.

“Well, I see that I am not welcome…” Fleur murmured, retracting her hand. “I suppose I’ll be off. It was an honor to make your acquaintance, Monsieur Potter, Monsieur Weasley.” A hand touched her shoulder, keeping her in place. The blonde looked up, startled. Tired, brown eyes looked back at her gratefully.

“There is no need for that, Fleur.” Hermione said softly. She cast her eyes towards the boys, gave her wand a flick in their direction, and sheathed it within her robes again. “I trust the next time we have something to discuss, it will not be with yelling and screaming, am I clear?” Ron nodded, still silent.

Harry cleared his throat, offering the Veela his hand again. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Delacour.” He said hoarsely. Fleur smiled and shook it again.

“Fleur, please,” She requested politely.

“Harry,” The wizard returned, smiling shyly.

Hermione seated herself in front of Fleur, smiling pleasantly. “Thank you for your gift, Fleur. My parents are dentists in Britain, but I don’t dare tell them. They’d try sending dental care packages by owl when they don’t even have one, let alone know how to charm them.” She chuckled at the thought of her parents trying to tie a package to the leg of a bird of prey. They were by no means stupid people, but weary amongst such creatures. “Thank you.”

 “You are Muggle-Born? I heard rumors… No disrespect to you, of course.”

Ron snorted and opened his mouth to retort, but Harry, seeing the testosterone flare, quickly averted his attention, starting a conversation of their own.

Hermione sighed and nodded. “I am. It’s really hard, sometimes. My parents can’t enjoy this life of wonders and adventure with me. Sometimes I think their lives would be better without me, but what can you do?” She finished dismissively, shrugging a shoulder. 

“Surely, not, Hermione!” Fleur gasped. “A daughter or son of any sort is a gift of mystery, of love. They must be so proud of you… to come as far as you have. My father is the same, for he cannot fully understand either; the Veela are only females. Most rites and celebrations he cannot attend for he is male.” Fleur said thoughtfully.

Hermione smiled, intrigued by the curious, secretive Veela culture. “So you are Veela. I thought so.”

“Was it that obvious? Sometimes I hate my thrall, even as weak as it may be. It is much harder to control, since I’m only quarter.” Fleur said quietly.

 “Have you finished eating?” Hermione asked suddenly. “I was hoping we could continue that conversation from yesterday, if you don’t mind starting early.”

Fleur perked up instantly. “Of course! Where shall we go?”

 

 

Hermione led the Veela to the library, Hermione’s own sacred haven. They sat together at Hermione’s favorite table in the corner, secluded and quiet, a refuge of beautiful sorts.

“Thank you again for the potion, Fleur. I don’t think I would have managed to get out of bed this morning without it.”

Fleur waved her thanks away, chuckling. “It was not a trouble. You are stressing over something I presume?”

Hermione sighed at this, biting her lip briefly. “This whole Tournament thing has me on edge even though it hasn’t started. But that’s not why I invited you here.”

One blonde eyebrow rose in speculation. “No? Then why?”

“I simply wanted to get to know you more, like we started to do last night. You seem to be a very interesting witch yourself. So, tell me, where do you come from? What are your parents like?”

“I am from a small, cozy French town near the sea. It’s one of those towns one passes through and sees perfection in its history and humility.” The blonde stuttered over the last word, blushing faintly before shrugging and continuing. “That’s actually why my parents decided to settle there; they passed through on their honeymoon, explored it, and fell in love with it, so they bought a patch of land a short distance away. Over the years, they’ve added on, to both house and property, so now we have enough space for our stables and vineyard, although my father’s relatives don’t believe it is worthy of the Delacour name.” Her eyes glazed slightly in reminisce. “It was a wonderful place to grow up… we have large green pastures where I used to chase and play with our horses, ride them, we even beat a trail so we could ride down to the beach.

“My parents, they are humble people. Wealthy, yes, but they are smart and kind with their money. My mother works with the Ministry, assisting with the Muggle communications. Papa is in politics, nothing enormous, mostly small-scale business.”

“What about the Veela, the rest of your family?”

Fleur looked down at the table reluctantly. “There is not much I can say… the Veela keep their secrets well guarded. But, I can tell you what it was like during the summer months. I would stay all holiday with my grandmother and her sisters, learning their trades and secrets. We, the children of the tribe, would go out into the wood and hunt each other, seeing who could climb the tallest tree, or who could run the fastest.” The blonde’s eyes were now completely glazed in memory. A small smile curved her lip into a beautiful, almost shy fashion. “How I loved those days. How I dreaded school!” She chuckled. “Of course I came around, and much slower than my parents liked. But there’s still a childish part of me that yearns for the forest.” The glassy sheen of remembrance broke as her eyes focused on Hermione.

“And my mother prays that the time spent with my grandmother will assist me, should I be chosen as Champion of Beauxbaton’s. Madame says she’s weary of it, but happy to participate.” She broke off suddenly, seeing Hermione’s eyes narrow at the mention of the Tournament. “Have I offended you?”

The Gryffindor sighed and folded her arms over her chest. “I haven’t worked out exactly how I feel about the whole thing. I’m glad Harry and Ron can’t compete, but still, something isn’t sitting right.”

Fleur’s eyes appraised her carefully, and with a small smile. “Well then, let’s discuss happier things. Tell me of your friends here, how you can put up with a daft boy such as Ronald, if I quote his sister correctly.”

Hermione forced a smile. This was it. The moment the blonde witch would turn the conversation back to her and ask about her friends, and their feats, leaving her after satisfying her curiosity as so many others had already done. A feeling of conviction and dread spread though her stomach.  “She prefers the word ‘dolt’ to daft’. But we’re here because I rambled on last night, and heard nothing of you. Why don’t you tell me of _your_ friends?” Her tone was void of any misconception that she wished the conversation over. Fleur’s keen ear caught this and sighed heavily, looking extremely apologetic. She expected the Frenchwoman to fight her, insisting to hear of his stories, but was taken aback by her apt reply.

“Hermione, I’ve taken the time to think that you’ve long wore thin the tales of Harry Potter. I do not wish to know if you do not wish to tell, and so I will not ask.” Her blue eyes blinked at her with earnest and sincerity, scorching in their sockets but soft in their perception. The English witch sighed, and her arms relaxed from about her chest.

Hermione’s tone lightened as she murmured an apology. “I’m quick to jump to conclusions like that. So many people have already used me as storyteller rather than just asking Harry himself.”

Fleur nodded understanding. “I would have imagined so. It is dreadfully unfair, too. But I shall do no such thing. I am far more interested in their personalities than their feats anyway. Now Ronald,” she continued. “Is he always that… stand-offish?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “I’ve never seen him act like that towards a new person, but he did have a rather bad night, I’m sure Ginny told you. But, no, usually he can’t keep his mouth closed. It’s really quite disgusting when he’s eating…” She grimaced at the thought. Fleur smiled and shook her head before Hermione continued. “He is a good, loyal friend, though. And Harry, he’s much more docile, but every bit Gryffindor. He stands up tall and proud against his struggles, always willing to help anyone, but so very neglectful of his own schoolwork. But a bright wizard too; he managed a corporal Patronus last year. Not many third years have ever pulled that off,” Fleur’s eyes widened with surprise.

“I couldn’t get the Patronus charm right until fifth year! Even now, I struggle for a corporal.”

“Many people have problems with it. But he got it.” Hermione finished with a fond smile, thinking of her friend. “But what of your friends, what are they like?” A much more polite and interested timbre took her voice.

Fleur looked down at the table, a small frown marring her features. “I don’t have any. I used to, when I was younger. It is hard, being Veela.” A sad edge stole away from the beautiful tone her voice usually held. “All the girls you see calling for me, they’re not my friends. They don’t know me and they do not wish to. To them, I’m a threat. Because I have nothing else to do, I study more than they do, and so that makes me competition. Either way, they consider me unworthy of their true friendship and those girls firmly believe in keeping their enemies closer, though I have never threatened any of them.” Hermione’s heart went out and soared in sympathy for the other witch.

“I remember in primary school, I used to raise my hand for every question the teacher asked. The others would get so disappointed, they never volunteered. When I offered help, they resented me. I was never invited to birthdays, or sleepovers, or the like. But somehow, Harry and Ron befriended me, tolerated me. They both saved my life once, too, in first year… I swore to return the favor one day.” 

Fleur watched her recall the events of her past before blinking and resuming her study of the table. “You are very lucky, then. And so are they. From listening, reading, I believe one day you will repay that debt tenfold, to both of them.” She looked up again, catching Hermione’s eye and held her gaze. Upon close inspection, she saw that the Gyrffindor's eyes were not brown at all, but dark hazel flecked with gold and green among the prevalent brown. “It strikes me how plainly intelligence shines in one’s eyes. Like a mirror’s honed and dutifully polished luster, staring back with logic and clarity. Yours gleam brighter than any other I’ve met.”

Hermione felt the blood rise in her cheeks, breaking eye contact. “Have you seen yours lately? Quite the lookers, they are.”

Fleur chuckled heartily at the corny little joke, most unexpected from Hermione. “So I’ve been told. Just never with such a lack of drool and envy. Thank you.” The clock chimed from its tower, striking the twelfth hour. At its sounding, Fleur rose up from the table, sighing regretfully. “I apologize, Hermione, but I must go, I hoped to study for this coming week before class. Perhaps we can chat again sometime?”

Hermione smiled, already looking forward to the next time she’d see the bright, blonde witch. “I’d love to, Fleur. Thank you for the company.”

The Veela smiled happily, bending forward at the waist to kiss each of Hermione’s cheeks, smiling slightly as she felt the skin heat beneath her lips.

“Have a nice weekend, Hermione. It may sound silly, but I really did have a nice time. It feels like years since anyone’s actually spoken to me, and kindly too.” With that, she turned and exited the library, a new spring in her step.

Hermione remained in her chair for several long moments after the blonde has disappeared, a strange sensation churning in her stomach. 


	3. Falling Into Wonderland

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Since the New Year is nearly here, I thought I'd go ahead and post the third chapter before everyone got too intoxicated to read. So, before we begin, just a little piece of background about the chapter. I reference the Greek goddess Athena in this chapter, and for those of you who don’t/haven’t particularly enjoy or read Greek mythology, Athena is the goddess of wisdom and strategy. In the myths, Zeus endured a severe headache, and when he opened his skull to relieve the pain, Athena was born with the wisdom of the gods. Or at least that's the gist I've collected over the years of reading mythology. So, I hope you all have a safe and happy New Year, and please, if you do drink, do so responsibly.  
> Much love,  
> RC

A few weeks passed and the two witches found themselves growing closer and entering the realms of friendship. On a Monday evening before dinner, as was custom, Hermione made her way through the library, and upon rounding a corner, found Fleur curled in her overstuffed armchair. The blonde had papers sprawled out around her, one clutched in her left, and an inkpot resting within reach of her right hand. Her brow was knit in concentration, the tip of a quill worried by her teeth. Her eyes roved over the paper carefully, meticulously, making their way over her parchment with a keen, sharp stare, searching for mistakes.

Hermione studied the witch for a long moment, a flush coloring her cheeks. She looked beautiful in Hermione’s standards, and her Veela blood was not a factor of her beauty this time. Nothing appealed more to the Gryffindor than someone as entranced by their current task as the Veela was. Her hair was messy, freed from the usual entrapment of her ponytail, obviously fumbled with but hung neglected for the moment, framing her pale face in curtain of blonde. An extra quill was tucked behind her ear, buried in the depths of tresses. There was a small crease between her eyebrows as she stared at a word, her eyes narrowed with scrutiny.

Feeling eyes watching her, Fleur looked up, smiling when she recognized the brunette. Hermione willed herself to move and take her seat beside the blonde, banishing whatever thoughts had begun to form, uninvited, in her subconscious mind. As she settled, she noticed the papers on the table were Fleur’s essays, and each bore terribly low marks.

Unable to resist, she lifted one, her eyes wide and incredulous. “Fleur, are you having problems in class?”

The blonde sighed heavily, unashamed of the intrusion of privacy. “Oui. My professors, they understand that I am still learning their language, but they wish for me to correct my essays to get a higher mark. I just don’t see what I’m doing wrong!” She sounded lost and exasperated, desperate to correct her mistakes.

Hermione read the paper in her hands and lifted her eyebrows in understanding. “You’re using French grammar with English words. Have you ever practiced writing in English extensively?” the blonde shook her head. “I thought so. It’s an easy fix. Here,” She stood and went to a bookshelf, her fingertips gingerly tracing the covers until she found the one she sought.

“Read this, get familiar with English syntax. Since you know how to speak, reading should be relatively easy, and after you get the hang of reading English, you’ll be able to write much more efficiently.” She handed over a battered paperback, its faded cover bearing a blonde girl and a frantic-looking white rabbit with a golden pocket-watch. 

“ _Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland,”_ She read aloud. Blue eyes flickered up to Hermione’s in question as the Gryffindor took her seat again.

 “Lewis Carroll was a Muggle who dreamt of a magical world, one quite different from ours. On a whim, he wrote this story about Alice, a young and curious little girl who falls down a rabbit hole into a new world full of paradoxes and oxymoronic realities, chasing after a white rabbit. I adored it when I was a kid, and when I learned I was a witch, it became a funny little joke. The language isn’t hard, but Lewis had quite the imagination. When are your papers due?”

“No one gave me a direct answer. I’ll speak with them tomorrow and see what they say. Thank you, Hermione. You may have just saved my graduation,” the blonde laughed.

Hermione rolled her eyes and chuckled. “It’s not a bother, really. Always a pleasure to share a book with a friend,” Fleur’s eyes shot up and then fell back down quickly.

“A friend…” She repeated softly, stroking the book’s cover. “Will you help me?”

The smile that graced Hermione’s face resembled the sun breaking free of cloud, liberating the spark of her eye that so many missed. She adored helping others learn and understand concepts, and had been starved of the privilege of doing so. “Of course I will. You read while I look over your papers, okay? I’ll point out what you did wrong and correct them.”

“No, Hermione, I couldn’t allow you to do that, it’s cheating!” Hermione was pleasantly surprised by Fleur’s integrity, after years of the boys begging her to do the exact opposite.

“I will correct them and tell you why it was wrong and what I did to make it right. You’ll rewrite them, of course, but only after you gain some grasp of understanding. That’s not cheating. It’s learning.”

Fleur, one hand still steadied on her essays, studied the girl carefully before withdrawing her hand. “I suppose…”

“Good. Now read, while I do this.” The Gryffindor smiled warmly before digging into her schoolbag, pulling out her special inkpot and favorite quill. She set to work, immediately throwing herself into the essays while Fleur opened her book.

Hermione had always enjoyed reading others’ essays, believing that it gave her a window to look through into another’s thoughts and true interpretations when strung together with others’, found universal truth and consistency. To her, it seemed to be a way to peer into the mind of another, rather than a daunting and undesired task. Never before had she caught the glimpse of one’s mind like she did Fleur’s. Though she stumbled over the incorrect syntax, the Veela expressed her thoughts and ideas clearly, taking one piece of information and weaving it with another subject in ways she herself had never considered. Her quill was set to scribble over the parchment, making corrections with accuracy and agility, but the meaning of Fleur’s words did not escape her, as her professors had noticed and commented upon; for there were many notes squeezed into the margins praising the complex thought process.

She made her corrections steadily, enjoying the comfortable silence that fell between them. Occasionally, the blonde would break it, asking for the definition of a word or why a circle-race would be the best way to dry off after being soaked in tears.

The silence lapsed between them again, punctuated by the crackle of the library fire, or the scratch of a quill, or the crisp turning of a page. Hermione sighed as she straightened the stack of essays sometime later, her work done. She glanced at the clock, her stomach grumbling faintly. She cast a glance at the witch beside her, curled in her chair with the book upon her knees. Fleur looked entranced, spellbound by the words she read. Just within the short hour, she’d passed through about a third of the novel, her brow furrowed slightly in concentration.

Hermione couldn’t break her stare. She was just as mesmerized with the Veela as she was her book. She felt no thrall; her eyes weren’t glazed, but incredibly clear and sharp in perspective. The blonde witch resembled Athena as she sat; her long, elegant neck angled downward, her eyes crinkled as she read, manicured, long-fingered hands turning pages periodically. Her posture was perfect, never overbearing in conceded self-righteousness, but proud all the same.

The Gryffindor felt her face heat up with blush. She felt it spread down her neck and over her chest. She shook her head in a feeble attempt to clear it. This wasn’t thrall, she knew. But she wasn’t sure what exactly it was. Hermione turned her eyes away just as Fleur looked up from her page. She asked why a caterpillar would smoke a hookah and why one would be so keen on vowels.

Hermione was unable to answer adequately, reminding Fleur of Lewis’s complex imagination. The blonde nodded and turned back to the page. Hermione allowed her eyes to travel back and continue their study after the blonde had regained the focus in her eye upon the book. Fleur’s upturned cheek caught the light from the nearby fire and held it to her skin, making her pale complexion glow bronze. She had changed from her usual uniform attire and into comfortable clothes; torso covered by a shallow V-neck the same shade of blue as her robes and was tucked into the waistline of her skirt; her chest, what little was bare, also held the same beautiful color cast by the flames. Her hips were covered by the skirt and reached to her mid-thigh, her stockings covered the remainder of her legs as they were tucked beneath her on the chair.

Hermione felt something stir in her chest, something primal and uninvited. It reared within her as a wave would before a storm, and it frightened her. Her heartbeat stuttered, blood rushed to color her cheeks, and the wave roared in her ears. Her throat tightened as her mouth watered, and she was overcome with lust towards Fleur. She choked it down, forcing the urge down into the pit of her stomach. It fought against her as though it were a bull, but her resolve and pig-headedness won out.

“Fleur,” She spoke up, attempting fatigue but her voice sounded low and husky instead. “I’m not feeling so well, I think I’ll head up to bed. I’ve finished your essays; we can go over them tomorrow if you like.” She smiled warmly as the other witch met her gaze and nodded.

“Thank you, so very much, Hermione.” Fleur murmured. “Do you need more of my father’s potion? I can make another batch within the hour if you need it.”

Hermione shook her head rapidly. “Not stress, just nausea, really.”

Concern crossed the blonde’s features as she rose out of her chair, laying the back of her hand on Hermione’s forehead. “Should I walk you to your dormitory? I could bring you soup or bread, something easy on the stomach.”

The Gryffindor nearly shivered at the touch. “No, thank you, I think I’ll be fine. Long day is all.”

Fleur looked anything but pacified. “If you think that’s best. However, I do insist that I accompany you to your dormitory at the very least.” She flicked her wand and their things organized themselves within their bags accordingly. With fluid motion, she lifted all the bags into her arms, forbidding Hermione to carry anything while she felt as she did. While they walked, the blonde slipped her arm through Hermione’s, giving her support when she never really needed it.

Hermione hated the contact between their bodies. The bull thrashed in her chest, stamping his hooves and snorting at his restraints. She clenched her jaw tightly and balled her hand into a fist. Fleur, ever gentle and docile, slowly lead her down the corridors, her arm solid and steady beneath Hermione’s. _How on Earth am I going to see her tomorrow? And talk about school with her?_ Her mind pondered, expertly finding something else to worry over other than the present moment.

                                         

   At the portrait, Fleur insisted she carry Hermione’s things to her room, but the Gryffindor fought back, saying the longer the Frenchwoman kept her from bed, the worse she’d feel. The blonde looked miserable as she relinquished her hold on the other witch’s things, apologetic and worrisome. Hermione sighed, and met her eyes.

“I’ll be fine, Fleur. Just need some rest, is all.”

The Veela didn’t look convinced, but nodded nonetheless. “Go to bed then, and I’ll see you in the morning. Take some of papa’s potion, perhaps it’ll help.”

Hermione nodded and wished her good night. The Veela kissed each of her cheeks, as per usual, and the lioness hesitantly responded in kind. The moment she entered the common room, she violently pulled Ginny from her conversation with Dean and dragged her into her room.


	4. Intruded Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What the hell, it's a new year, why not post the next bit? I hope you all had fun, stayed safe, and emerged into the new year with everything intact (with the exception of memory). Sorry to leave you all with that cliffhanger, but I must warn, this one isn't much better, and for that I'm sorry. I recommend going back and rereading the last few paragraphs of the previous chapter just to refresh your memory, and for a clearer understanding of Hermione's distress in the beginning of this chapter. This is rather short, compared to what I usually write, I may decide to include the next chapter with this one at some point, but for now, I'm going to leave it at this. Enjoy!  
> Much love,  
> RC

“No, Ginny, you don’t understand!” Hermione exclaimed, pacing round her room. Silencing charms shimmered as her voice hit them, and her gratitude for her own quarters intensified. Her body shook and her heart pounded, unsure of the convictions her words held. “I _wanted_ her. I wanted to touch her, kiss her, throw myself at her; I felt my hair stand on end! What the hell am I supposed to do?” She threw herself down heavily on the bed.

“Kiss her?” Ginny suggested. She deflated when Hermione turned hopeless eyes towards her. “I don’t know what to tell you, ‘Mione. Everyone goes through these things.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “But _I_ don’t crush! I have better things to worry over, and this damned Tournament isn’t making things any easier! Why her? It’s not her thrall; I’ve made sure of that. She doesn’t have to look at me to make me feel like this…” she put her head in her hands. “She’s my _friend…_ and I’m the only real one she has. I can’t pull the rug out from under her like that, if she doesn’t feel the same way… Hell, why would she feel the same way? She could have anyone she wanted!”

“You don’t know anything of the Veela, and apparently she can’t tell you, so you can’t determine how she can feel about anything.” Ginny said sternly, squaring the other Gryffindor in her sight.

“But what do I do?” Hermione asked softly, looking up at her friend. Ginny’s stern demeanor melted and she wrapped the older girl in her arms.

“You focus on her friendship. You’re happy you have it. You tread lightly around the issue. For the love of God, don’t ignore it, don’t deny it, don’t fight it; you’ll never win.” Hermione tried to snort, but it sounded like a sniffle due to the tears forming in her eyes.

Ginny sighed heavily and stroked her back. “It’s ok, Hermione. It’ll be ok.”

“I’m gay.” She whispered. “I’m a Muggle-born, Mudblood, know-it-all witch, and I’m gay.” The last words were spoken softly, not regretfully, but almost as if it was another obstacle to overcome, to fight and learn to live with. Within the words, a tone of thoughtful perception rang, one never considered, like a new angle of inquiry of the sciences.

Ginny held her friend tighter. “And that’s ok. It doesn’t change who you are. You’re still the same pig-headed book-worm that walked through those doors four years ago.”

Hermione cracked a smile. “Well, I suppose that’s true. I just never thought…”

“No one thinks these things, ‘Mione. No one considers. I always knew though. I knew about Fleur too.”

“How could you have known?”

“Every time you get back from the library, or when you see her come to the Great Hall for a meal, you light up like it’s Christmas morning.”

“She’s a great person, and she’s fun to talk to and she’s very intelligent, too, you should read some of her essays.”

Ginny fought the urge to grin; Hermione slapped her arm and let her head fall into her hand again.

“What am I going to do?” She sighed the question again.

Ginny drew a breath and reworded her response. “Do what you've been doing, ‘Mione. Be a friend for her. There’s nothing else you can do, right now. Get on to bed. I know you have a lot to think about.”

Hermione’s eyes shot to her friend’s. “You’re not… are you?”

Ginny laughed and shook her head. “Not that I know of, but I can see how strange it must be to think about. But you’re still _you_ Hermione. This realization doesn’t and shouldn’t change anything.” She kissed her friend’s hair gently before leaving her room, wishing her good night and closing the door softly behind her.

Hermione sat before the mirror on her desk and stared at her reflection, and had a long look at herself. She uncovered more truth than she did during her dreams as she lost the focus she had on the reflection, and saw her thoughts take on a more physical shape the harder she concentrated, but her expressions were not lost by the change in focus. Her eyes fluttered as she processed additional information, they crinkled as she smiled when she envisioned a world where she could actively pursue Fleur. These micro-expressions were neither missed by her eye nor meaningless to her mind, but indicated things her subconscious hid from her conscious mind. Genuine smiles, hopeful eye flutters, she even caught a glaze in her iris. Then she noticed how dilated her pupils were. She pushed herself away from the mirror, and leapt into bed, unwilling to linger on that thought.

 

 

Across campus, the Veela turned beneath her blanket. She had noticed Hermione’s attention, and could not help herself from reveling in the observation. She hadn’t felt as though the Gryffindor had studied her as so many others had, with hopeless admiration, but as though she were art, like a fine piece of sculpture, carved from some ore no human had ever used or seen before. But there was more to the looks Fleur had caught over the page of her book. There was desire, she remembered, untainted by the glassy sheen her thrall usually provided. There was admiration, as though she were a goddess. Fleur scoffed at the thought. She, a goddess? But if Hermione saw her in that light, it must be true, at least to some degree, for her intellect was unprecedented by any other and surly had never failed her.

A deep sigh filled Fleur’s chest. She’d done her fair share of study, herself. She had watched as the brunette read her essays, how her brow had scrunched together as she tried to understand the incorrect grammar, then how they would rise in understanding and how her eyes would shine with focus. How prettily her cheeks were dusted with freckles. How dark her eyes were, brown until one took a closer look and saw the honest presence of green and gold. How the corner of her eye crinkled as she smiled. How, in the firelight, her skin had looked so soft and inviting, the Veela had forced herself to remain seated.

She remembered how her skin prickled with gooseflesh when the lioness had said her name, low and drawling slightly, before she pled tired and stressed. She remembered the heat from her arm as she guided her back to the Gryffindor Tower, how the hairs along her body had stood at attention long after she had returned to the Beauxbaton carriage. The Veela was entranced, and frighteningly so. Why had she reacted to the Gryffindor in such a way? She was a friend, and losing that friendship was far from what the Veela wished.

What she wished was for someone to talk to about this. Gabrielle was far too young to understand, and the Gryffindor was unthinkable, since she was the focus of these thoughts. She needed a Veela to talk to. A Veela might understand. But Veela don’t crush, and they never have.

She turned on her back and stared at the ceiling. How strange it is, the courtship of Veela. Fleur scoffed inwardly. _Impossible._ She thought. _If that were the case, I’d know._ She sighed heavily and thought again. _Surely, I’d know…_

Begrudgingly, she banished the thoughts and turned on her side. With determination, she closed her eyes and forced sleep to come. That was the first night Hermione Granger intruded her dreams.

 

 

 

 

The next day, the two had met in the library after classes as was scheduled. Fleur had finished _Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland_ the previous night (after losing a great deal of sleep) and felt a little more confident in her ability to correct herself. Hermione settled into the armchair beside Fleur, arranging her essays on the table. The Veela looked interested and intuitive as she arranged blank pages to rewrite her papers next to a fresh quill and inkpot. The Veela had to focus incredibly hard on the tasks in an effort to keep the thoughts of last night’s dreams at bay.

Eager eyes met Hermione’s with a sharp and intelligent sheen, a small smile lifting the corners of her lips. Hermione took a deep breath and smiled. The bull in her chest resembled a wolf for this encounter, lying in wait with amber eyes ever-ready.

“Did your professors give you dates for your revised essays?” Her voice held a steady timbre, and she smiled inwardly at the observation.

The blonde nodded. “All of them told me to take my time with it, except my Alchemy professor. He wants it finished by Friday.”

Hermione rolled her eyes at the mention of Snape. “Yes, he would, wouldn’t he? Well, let’s do that one first.” After a short ruffling of pages, the proper essay was located. Hermione explained the basic rules of English syntax and a few of the more confusing rules, like when to use ‘their,’ ‘there,’ or ‘they’re’ as well as why apostrophes are used and how they came to be used from Shakespeare’s writings. From her previous English classes, Fleur knew most of what Hermione said, but nodded nonetheless, and even learned some new things. The Frenchwoman even took notes on a spare page, and soon had fell into silence as she rewrote the essays by herself, only pausing a few times to ask Hermione to check over her work.

Reading had certainly assisted the blonde; so much so, her mistakes were now occasional rather than constant, and consistently broke the same rules, and each time Hermione corrected her and explained the broken rules again. To further the Veela’s practice, Hermione assigned another book for her to read. A collection of Edgar Allen Poe’s short storieswas now secure in the blonde’s hands, and without instruction, she began to read. The lioness watched, becoming entranced again. It was not the aggressive sort of lust that had overcame her the previous night or even that from her dreams, but a softer, gentler kind of wonder. She watched as the Veela’s hands turned the pages, how her eyes roamed over the words, how the cords in her neck moved as she turned her head this way and that, how elegantly her collarbone framed her throat.

“This man,” Fleur spoke up without lifting her eyes. “He is morbid.”

“He had a very rough life,” Hermione sighed, her mind drawn to the new direction of thought. “He lost his parents as a child, during school he had to burn his furniture to stay warm he was so poor, lost the only mother he’d ever really known at eighteen, lost his first wife to the same disease that had killed his mother, brother, and foster mother.”

The Veela made a low grumbling noise in her throat. “Poor fellow…” She chose that moment to look up, and met Hermione’s eyes. Electricity passed between them, the same electricity that kept their hearts beating. A silent, incomprehensible pulse, one that Hermione had obviously felt, for her eyes went wide before she looked away. Fleur composed herself, desperately trying to calm her heart. She’d never had heart problems before, and she had always healthy and able. Her body’s sudden change startled her.

She cleared her throat and rose from her seat to pack her bag, mumbling something about Gabrielle.  _No, it mustn't be her!_  Her mind sputtered these thoughts from its delirium. _No, no, no... It_  can't _be her_... _of all bloody people in the world, why must it be her!!!_

“Are you alright, Fleur? You’re really pale…” Hermione’s voice shook uncertainly, but with concern.

Fleur opened her mouth to speak, but words failed. Her hand rose to her breast bone, feeling the organ’s strange disruption thrumming there. Her lungs refused to take in air, quickly depleting her body of oxygen as her blood rushed away from her brain.

A voice called to her, but she could no longer hear clearly, as if underwater. Hermione’s face was rimmed with black in the Veela’s vision, becoming engulfed as she fell backwards, striking the stone floor with her spine first, her head following suite and unconsciousness taking over…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess that was enough of an in-text citation, but just to be safe, Lewis Carroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland was one of my favorite stories as a child. I would highly recommend it, but it is very strange and imaginative so if you haven't read it already or watched the movie, be warned.


	5. The Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, world! As usual, there are a few things I'd like to note before we get started, although it shouldn't be as long as the others are. Hermione’s SPEW organization has already been launched, and successful. That's just a little change I decided to make to show a bit of depth of character and to bring in elements I'll work with later on. In the books, I noticed a particular distaste between house-elves and Veela, the few times it was mentioned. I never understood it, but that will not apply in this fic. Thank the deities for AU.  
> Alright, let's continue! Constructive criticism and comments are encouraged and sincerely thanked. Enjoy!  
> RC

Fleur woke to a slightly sterile smell, fading light from a window, a soft throbbing in her head and an ache in her back. She lay in a small bed, a glass of water on a table within reach. The Veela drank thirstily, the cool water wetting her throat but coiled in her empty stomach painfully.

A door creaked open, and the headmaster of Hogwarts entered slowly.

“Ah, you’re awake. May I come in?” Dumbledore said softly. Fleur nodded, trying to remember the forgotten events. “You are safe, Ms. Delacour. No serious injuries, I assure you. Madame Pomfrey took very good care of you.”

“Headmaster,” The Veela started slowly. “What happened?” 

The old wizard took a seat in the corner of the room, sighing as he did so. “Your grandmother and I are closer than you may know. Her tribe has assisted me in many ways over the years. It is time for me to repay a part of that debt that is owed to her. You are aware of your culture, and your blood, yes?”

“Of course, Headmaster, but what does that have to do with me waking up in an infirmary?”

“Your mate, my dear, surely you remember.” Dumbledore said softly, his wise eyes glittering.

“My—my mate?” Fleur stuttered, trying to process all the information provided to her. “How long have I been here?”

“A day and a half. Your charming sister just left for dinner. The darling girl has been by your side ever since Hermione carried you here.”

“Hermione…” The events from the day before slowly returned to the surface of Fleur’s mind. A pile of essays, a book, and the urge to run resurfaced from memory. She remembered the confusion of the night before her apparent fall, how she’d thought of the girl in question in relation to her heritage.

“She carried me here?” Fleur forced out. She looked down at her petite frame. She may have been small around, but long dancer’s muscles rested beneath her skin, all along her tall build. The Frenchwoman tipped the scales to a surprising number, considering the impressive amount of muscle that remained hidden.

Dumbledore chuckled softly. “Indeed, she did. I’m not sure how she managed it. Perhaps she took her levitation studies to a higher level. Or perhaps, something more divine…?” He arched an eyebrow at her.

“Of course!” She bellowed, startling herself, although Dumbledore didn’t flinch. The ancient lesson her grandmother had taught her so long ago in her youth. The heart would know, but the mind would not. The courtship of the Veela… had it begun? Had the blood of her ancestors awakened within her veins? Is it possible that the only friend she had was her intended mate? It must be…

“I see you remember.” Dumbledore murmured breaking her thought and chuckling to himself. “Do not fret. Miss Granger’s mind is sharp, indeed. However, it is uneducated in the terms of love. That should be interesting; you teaching Miss Granger what she does not know she does not know.” He laughed again. “You will prevail. Both your grandmother and I have confidence.”

“Grand-mère knows?” Fleur asked.

“Indeed, and she seems certain, by the positioning of your stars, she tells me. I wrote to her after Hermione spoke to me. She’s helping you with your English? With her as a tutor, you’ll be writing just fine. Take time, mess up on purpose.” He winked. “Fein frustration. Become a dear friend, Fleur. Everything will fall into place.” The old sorcerer rose from his seat, producing a letter from his robes, which he placed on top of her blankets. “This was sent for you, from your grandmother, as well as a bottle of French wine in congratulations.” He gestured to the counter. “I haven’t seen it, though. And I wouldn’t know how it got in your room, either.” Again, he chuckled. “So long as I get a bottle this Christmas, and no other students find out.” Fleur could only stare, appalled at the Headmaster’s leniency. She stared at him in disbelief, unsure of how to reply.

“I… thank you…” She managed. She held the letter gingerly; the parchment had ink spots where letters had bled through. Her grandmother’s scent lingered on the letter, comforting and homey.

“There is no need. The head nurse has cleared you to leave, there is no concussion or internal bleeding, absolutely nothing to worry over. Dinner is still being served, for another hour, actually. I would hurry on down. Hermione is worried.” With that, he rose and left the room, a bottle of wine suddenly appeared on the counter.

Hesitantly, Fleur opened the letter from her grandmother. In the ancient Veela language, she wrote:

_My dearest grandchild,_

_It is to my great pleasure that I write to you with happy tidings. Monsieur Dumbledore has written to me, telling me of the recognition of your mate. He tells me she is quite the witch, brilliant, gorgeous, too. I knew this day would come. You have grown to be so beautiful,_ _ma chère_ _; so tall and strong, just like your mother. Your sister is following in your footsteps, I’m sure._

_Your mate, miss Hermione, she will come to know soon enough, if she doesn’t already. Be slow with her, be gentle, offer her a friend in you, don’t hasten yourself to reveal everything to her, she’ll come to seek answers herself. From what I’ve heard, she is a good friend of Harry Potter and a Ronald Weasley. I hear at school, they are nothing more than boys, yapping on about something called Quidditch. I suppose I should learn more, beyond the Veela world, to better understand such things. Anyway, she could use intelligent conversation with another bright mind. Not that those boys aren’t bright, with their feats, but intelligence like yours. Challenge her at things, make her think, make her work, make her research. Be polite, of course, but challenge her nonetheless._

_Remember the lessons your mother and I taught you. Be ready to catch her if she falls like you did, carry her like she did you. Impressive, that was, for her to carry you. It is quite obvious that her heart knows, for it lent her strength._

_I sent you some wine in celebration, you’re a grown witch now, you can do as you please and the Madame should be pacified; I sent her a bottle as well. I’m sure you’ll need it sometime, and it will be a nice reminder of home. A charm has been cast so that eyes that should not see it, including your sister, will not see it._

_Write to me often, my dear. Tell me how the ritual progresses and if I should allow your mother or father to read your letters. Please, send pictures as well, your mother begs. I, too, wish to see this mate of yours._

_With all my love,_

_Grand-mère_

Fleur folded the letter and held it to her chest and took a deep breath. She had found her mate. At seventeen, she knew who was to hold her heart, but would it be accepted? Many Veela had walked all their lives searching, but finding nothing. She knew she was lucky, to say the very least, but how dreadfully _un_ lucky was she really? What if the lioness chose against the relation? What if she was repulsed? More importantly, how progressed was their relation already? Dear friends? She knew she already valued Hermione on a higher level. She was her only friend. But how did the lioness feel? The way she’d been staring seemed interested, but it could have been study…

The Veela climbed out of bed, her bare feet touched the cold floor hesitantly, her head spinning slightly. She slowly rocked her weight to her feet, seeing that she was fit to stand, took a small step forward.

Everything was fully functioning; a stiff, bruised back and a small knot on her head was the remainder of yesterday’s events. Fleur sighed gratefully, her sister had left a change of clothes for her, and the bag was the perfect size to carry the wine in. Her personal belongings lay beside her clothes.

Fleur thanked the medi-witch graciously, making a mental note to send her a bottle from her family’s vineyard as well. In the darkened corridor, she found herself alone. She shrugged off her unease, asked a portrait for directions, and set off.

Hogwarts was nothing like the Beauxbaton’s palace. Enchanted torches lit themselves as she walked by, dying down again as she passed. The blasted staircases changed constantly, normally when she had just reached the top of one.

She sighed in frustration, a slight twitch in her eye.

“I know; these stairs irritated me as well.” A voice piped up. It was nearly a child’s voice, but held some sort of feminine maturity. Fleur’s back straightened, pupils dilated.

“I can imagine. Where are you?” She asked slowly. Something pulled gently at her robes, when she looked down, a house elf smiled up at her, dressed in a faded sundress.

“I’m not sure why these staircases move. It gets very frustrating at times.” Fleur cocked her head to the side.

“Can you help me get to the Great Hall?” She asked, bending down to the elf’s height.

“Of course! You are a guest of Hogwarts!” The elf took her hand and pulled her along to a ledge where the stairs were supposed to stay. There, they remained until another staircase arrived.

“What is your name?” Fleur asked, allowing herself to be led.

“Nora.” The house elf replied. “What is yours?”

“Fleur Delacour. It is a pleasure to meet you, Nora. Thank you for your assistance.”

“You’re a guest.” Nora replied. “I’m only obligated.”

“I’ve never heard a house elf speak as fluently as you.” Fleur observed. “Who has taught you?”

“The Headmaster allows us to use the library when our day is over. A nice girl named Hermione taught me how to read a few years ago. She’s the one who convinced him to allow us to use the library, as well as to pay us for our services.” Nora explained. Fleur smiled broadly. “It was quite a time, learning to adjust, but Miss Granger walked with us the whole way, even when others objected. Have you met her?”

“Indeed, I have. She is… quite the young witch. The future seems bright.”

Nora nodded, continuing down the corridor. She stopped suddenly, looking up at the Veela.

“If you go down this hall, take a right, you’ll be in front of the Great Hall.” She smiled up at Fleur.

The blonde got down on her knee, rummaged through her bag for a moment, and pulled out two tiny ballet slippers.

“I wore these years ago. My mother always said I’d be a dancer, so when I was a babe, she bought these for me. I carry them as a good luck charm, but I would be most pleased if you took them as a token of thanks.” Fleur held out the shoes for the house elf to take. “I know the rules, but I insist, you have been very kind to me.”

Nora studied the shoes carefully in disbelief. “You really are something,” she whispered. “No witch or wizard has ever been kind to me as you have, other than Miss Granger, of course. Are you sure? Would your mother object?”

Fleur chuckled. “I doubt she knows I still have them.”

“Won’t you need the luck?”

“I no longer have a use for luck.” Fleur said smiling.

Nora bowed deeply, finally accepting the slippers. “My most gracious thanks in return, Veela.” She said, smiling.

The blonde nodded her head, turned, and strode into the Great Hall.

The evening meal was half over, the Hall nearly empty. From across the room, she saw Hermione, reading by herself. Her legs set a fast pace, crossing the room swiftly.

“May I sit?” She asked quietly.

Hermione’s hazel eyes flashed up, a smile stretched across her features. “Of course, of course!” She replied, pushing her things away so Fleur had space. The blonde seated herself beside Hermione, filling an empty plate.

“How are you feeling?” Hermione asked softly, studying the blonde’s face worriedly.

“Better than ever.” Fleur responded behind a napkin. “How did you manage to lift me?”

“I’m not sure…” Hermione replied blushing. “Adrenaline, I guess.”

Fleur nodded, chewing another piece of chicken thoughtfully. A few minutes passed silently while Fleur ate painfully slowly.

“I met a nice house elf on my way here.” Fleur spoke up after finishing a good portion of her meal.

“Oh really?”

“I did. Her name was Nora. She spoke of you very fondly.”

Hermione smiled broadly. “I remember Nora. She was so excited to learn how to read.”

“So she told me. Those staircases are the incarnation of Satan! Just deciding to move right when you have one foot on a ledge next to your destination. She helped me find my way from the hospital wing.”

Hermione laughed heartily. “Ah, yes. I remember my first trip up the changing stairs. Gave me quite the fright, I assure you.” The clock sounded, telling of the end of dinner.

“I’d better be on, then.” Fleur said regretfully. “I wouldn’t want to be caught after hours on my way back to the carriage.” The Veela rose and began gathering her things.

“I should come with you. In case you pass out again.” Hermione responded insistently, grabbing her things as well.

“I will be fine, Hermione. There is nothing to worry over.”

“No, I’m coming with you.”

Fleur sighed; stubborn Gryffindors. The two walked along the beaten path in comfortable silence, the early fall air cool and fresh in their lungs and on their skin. Hermione shivered beside Fleur, who pulled her close and rubbed her arm to generate heat. Hermione, taken by surprise at first, gladly accepted the embrace, taking the Veela’s offered warmth. The English witch had only her uniform blouse, nothing more to protect her arms from the cold.

“What exactly happened today, Fleur?” Hermione asked, breaking the silence.

The Veela sighed, and then upon remembering her grandmother’s advice, decided to use it. “Let us play a game, shall we? Hogwarts has an extensive library, yes? I am Veela. Start there, and find your answer.”

Hermione’s eyebrows knit together. “A research project, all right then. Challenge accepted.” A broad smile graced her lips. “Any and everything Veela, I got it.”

They arrived at the powder-blue carriage, Hermione, who had insisted on carrying Fleur’s bags, handed the blonde her things, goose bumps rising along her skin.

“Wait here, please.” Fleur requested, ducking into the carriage quickly. She returned in a few seconds, a thick cotton jumper in her hands.

“Here, please take it. It’s much too cold for you to wear only a blouse at this time of night.” Hermione relented after a few minutes of insisting she was fine, betraying herself by shivering involuntarily. She slipped the jumper over her head, the soft fabric instantly warming her. Fleur’s scent washed over her, impossible to name the all the specific fragrances that, together, was namely _Fleur_. Hermione smelled tea and honey, perhaps the smoke of a fire, a trace of French vanilla, and another, nameless scent that somehow reminded her of home.

Fleur studied her, eyes dark and wide against the dim light. She yearned to reach out brush a stray strand of hair from her cheek and tuck it behind her ear.

“Thank you, for helping me, Hermione,” Fleur whispered. “With my class work and my fall.”

Hermione’s lips twitched into a grin. “What else was I supposed to do? Leave you there and hope you’d wake up? What happened _exactly_ , Fleur? People don’t just pass out for no reason.”

The blonde sighed heavily. “I’ve been having… issues, with my heart lately. I have been studied closely for some time now, Madame says I am healthy, but it stutters at times.” She covered quickly. Not entirely a lie…

Hermione nodded, eyebrows furrowed. She sniffled loudly as a gust of wind cut through her clothes.

“I am keeping you too long. Return to your dormitory, Hermione, I would feel awful if you got sick. Please, I’ll see you at breakfast, yes?”

Hermione nodded, about to reply, when Fleur’s deft, warm, heart-stopping kiss was dropped on her cheek, and again on the other. The brunette stood frozen, hazel eyes locked on deep cerulean. Fleur seemed unconcerned with the expression on the girl’s face and smiled warmly.

“Good night, mon ami. Dream sweetly, and please get inside where it’s warm.” Hermione murmured good night, and the blonde turned and slipped into the carriage silently.

 Hermione stood, rooted to the ground. The wind whipped around her, seeking out her flesh through the knit of her clothes and feasting on the warmth found. She felt nothing, but those burning kisses that had warmed her body all the way to frostbitten fingers.

Finally, a shiver rolled down her spine, and she turned, briskly walking back to the castle, the kisses still smoldering like embers on her skin.

 

* * *

 

Fleur was met with a thousand questions spilling forth from a thousand voices. She had been lucky enough to slip into her room and retrieve her jumper for Hermione without notice, and for that she was grateful. She tried to answer a few of the plaguing questions; every answer seemed to bring a new wave forth.

Madame Maxime was her saving grace.

“Miss Delacour has had an exhausting day, loves.” She spoke in French. “Let her rest. Perhaps she will answer your questions on the morrow.”

Fleur bowed to her headmistress, quickly running to her quarters and locking the door behind her. She slumped against the wood, a smile on her face. Her lips still tingled from Hermione’s soft skin brushing against them. She ran to her window, peeping out hesitantly. From the dim light, she could see a figure briskly making its way back to the castle, hunched against the cold.

The Veela pressed her hand to the glass, sighing heavily. She left her watch post, undressing down to her lingerie and crawled into bed, the crisp, cool silken bedclothes warming instantly. She lay on her side, clutching a pillow to her bare chest, imagining it was Hermione resting in her arms.

Fleur recalled the recent events, how sweet Hermione had smelled when she kissed her, how adorable she looked in her jacket. She clutched the pillow tighter, praying that the ritual wouldn’t fail, even though she knew it had succeeded for generations.

The Veela sighed heavily, envisioning Hermione’s cheek against her breast, sleeping soundly, her dark hair tangled with Fleur’s own silken tresses. She fell asleep happily, dreaming vivid dreams of a beautiful tomorrow. How easily she accepted the prominent possibility of Hermione; she’d been imagining the moment for her whole life, as every Veela did. There was choice to be made, but within her heart and her dreams, she resolved to leave that worry for tomorrow.

 

 

Hermione finally lay in her bed, still wearing Fleur’s jacket. It had kept her incredibly warm during the walk back to her room and continued to protect her from the bite of chill. Again, perplexing thoughts plagued the brunette. Fleur’s kisses still burned on her skin, as intense as if the Veela’s lips still pressed there. The memory of Fleur’s sweet scent swirled round her senses, refusing to be forgotten.

“Fleur…” She whispered to herself, tasting the name, allowing it to roll from her tongue. She wet her lips, whispering the Veela’s name again, thinking of how sweet it tasted. This thought alone spurred on many more; rushing in so fast, she couldn’t stop or process them. How would the Veela’s lips taste? Would they be soft and submissive, or would they take control and dominate? How would her hand feel if it cupped her cheek upon kissing her? Would her fingers run through her hair, or would the Veela hold her against her body by the small of her back or by her shoulders?

Hermione rolled over to her nightstand, grabbing the phial of potion that was nearly exhausted and took a measured sip. Her jaw had clenched instinctively, other parts of her body responded to the thoughts by different means.

Her arms crossed over her chest tightly so that her hands could not wander. She resented her weakness, her need for gratification, her body’s primal instincts threatening to overthrow her mind’s control.

She tossed and turned, desperately trying to rid seemingly unwanted thoughts form her mind. The Veela thrall hadn’t affected her had it? She wasn’t drooling, she wasn’t red-faced when the blonde was near, but how bloody hard it was to try and keep these thoughts from intruding her conscious mentality. It was bad enough she dreamt it. She sighed heavily in annoyance, in sexual frustration that continued to build. Her stomach felt tight, muscles coiled, even her legs were tense.  She longed to relieve that pressure, that hot, sinful need that coursed through her veins. It would be to no avail, she knew, for her own hand would only frustrate her further.

Hermione sighed. She climbed out of bed, deciding that sleep was not yet an option. She went to her window, spreading the curtain and forcing the panes apart. She stared out into the night, chill air flowing in and curling around her. Stars shone overhead, twinkling down at the campus of Hogwarts. The Astronomy Tower looked most tempting to visit, but it was far after hours. She stared out over the hills and vast expanses of forests, marveling at the beauty of the night. Long, she stayed there, doubting and wondering and fearing, dreaming  dreams she’d never dared to dream before, until shivers rolled down her spine despite the warm sweater of the blonde beauty’s she still wore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last little bit was a style mirrored from one of my favorite poems, The Raven, by Edgar Allen Poe. The actual line is, ‘Deep into that darkness, peering/ long I stood there, wondering, fearing/ doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before,’ It is truly a chilling poem, and if you haven’t read it, I highly encourage it despite the melancholic air of the work.


	6. Veela Pride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so now we get to see some intense rivalry between Bulgarian and Veela! I must warn you, I do a bit of bashing against Krum here, make him out to be somewhat of an enormous asshole, but you’ll see that later. I took my time in getting to the announcement of the Champions, but it's finally here!!! And I reference another Greek goddess, which means another little short story. This time, I reference Eris, who was said to be the goddess of torment and mischief, basically the Greek, slightly less-depressed female version of Loki. I don’t go into much depth here, but the myths do credit Eris with much of the troubles encountered by humans due to her schemes, like the time she tried to make Zeus say who was the prettiest goddess; his wife, Hera, his daughter, Athena (I think), or Aphrodite, who is the goddess of beauty. Zeus was pretty much screwed any which way he turned, so he made a human decide, who was then prosecuted and killed by the two unchosen and angry goddesses. A day in the life of, right? And all because Eris wasn’t invited to a party, because they knew she would fuck shit up, and she ended up doing so anyway. Go figure. Anyway, I just wanted to give you the background of that because of the intensity to which I use it. I’m sorry I go on long spills when it comes to Greek myths, I feel like it’s important to help readers understand my references and to give an example of the main traits and whatnot. Eris is only mentioned once, but the statement has a certain kind of power to it I was hoping to highlight for those who are unfamiliar with Greek mythology, so please bear in mind the lack of conscious Eris has when she’s mentioned. This one's relatively long, but I hope you enjoy! On with the party!  
> Much love,  
> RC

Despite the hidden feelings between them, the two witches become inseparable, indulging in challenging riddles, politics, spells, always trying to one-up the other. Hermione welcomed the challenges readily given, as Fleur purred in the light of companionship. Now, Hermione waited patiently in the corridor where the pair now fancied to hold their sessions, the very same where the Goblet of Fire had been relocated to accept willing and legal participants’ names. Fleur had not yet arrived, and tardiness was not in her nature, nor had she ever allowed to be kept from her studies. Applause broke out as a student’s name was accepted, Cedric Diggory of Hufflepuff was brought into the arms of his fellows, clapping him on his back and wishing him luck. Several younger students gazed longingly at the flickering blue flames; others had a far-away blankness in their eyes, undoubtedly visualizing themselves offering their names to the Goblet.

Two large doors burst open, and the file of blue-clad women entered with their heads held high. One by one, they approached the Goblet and crossed the Age-Line, and cast her respective name to the fire. Fleur was the last to approach and with graceful determination, back straight and shoulders ridged; Gabrielle watched from a distance with a hopeful sheen in her eye. The barrier seemed to open upon her approach, blue flames reaching out to accept her name. She lifted her hand, said a silent prayer to whomever was listening, and released her name to the ever-wavering blue. The inferno flickered, licking at her fingertips in the manner of a dog after receiving a treat, and settled, calm and tranquil.

No one applauded for her, stunned by the display of determination and air of authority about the blonde. She followed the previous Beauxbaton student around the hall as they filed out the door they had first passed through, Fleur broke off to join Hermione, who appraised the Veela with a keen, nervous eye.

“I apologize for my tardiness. Madame wanted us all to give our names to the Goblet together.” When Hermione did not reply, Fleur narrowed her eyes in question. “You’re upset. Why?”

Hermione sighed and looked away from the blonde. “I was hoping you wouldn’t compete.”

“Hermione, that’s why we were brought here,” Fleur murmured. “Madame didn’t bring us all the way to Hogwarts for us to get cold feet. Besides, we don’t know who will compete yet.”

“I know, but the Tournament was canceled because a _death toll_ ensued with the last one! I highly doubt it’s gotten any safer than it was three hundred years ago. I’m hoping nothing will go too terribly off the rails this year, although it always does. Harry’s never had a quiet year here, but at least he’s underage, and therefore safe from it.”

Fleur did not reply, and Hermione did not continue for several long silent moments. 

“Are you worried?”

The Veela took in a deep breath. “A little, I’m ashamed to admit. But all will be well, I assure you.”

Silence ensued as the doors opened to admit a tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed male who quickly approached and crossed the boundary. He cast his name into the Goblet emotionlessly. No one clapped for the Goblet’s acceptance, just stared at him, girls swooning, other males nodding respectfully, jealously. 

He turned, his face the mask of a predator, his eyes locking with Hermione’s. Fleur bristled beside her, eyes narrowing to slits of dark blue, a growl rising from her chest, nearly bursting forth. The Bulgarian’s eyes found hers; dark brown fought a losing battle against fiery cobalt. He broke eye contact, glancing at Hermione before stalking off.

This exchange did not go unnoticed by Hermione, nor by the other students as whispers broke out around them again, who watched the expression on the Veela’s face tighten.

“Have you two known each other for a long time? It seems like there’s more rivalry than there is between Harry and Malfoy.”

Fleur shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “I’ve never had a real conversation with him, but he intimidates me. He flaunts his masculinity like it’s a beacon of unspoken authority. I resent it. And, if fate has arranged us to compete against one another, I will be sure to give him a run for his pride.”

The brunette sighed heavily. “I almost wish you hadn’t come here… you could get badly hurt, or worse, even…” She trailed off.

Fleur’s heart sank as Hermione said the words, but gratitude for her headmistress swelled. “I’m very glad I came here, Hermione. I have made friends, which is more than I can say I have back home. You speak as though I’m already a chosen Champion. Even if I am chosen, there’s nothing to worry over, Hermione. I will be fine. I am Veela.”

“Is that your answer for everything?”

“When it’s appropriate, yes. The Veela are a strong race, ancient magic in our blood, and a stubborn mentality that is multiplied with the Delacour name, in my case. I will prevail.” Fleur explained confidently. “So, how is your research going?” The Veela spoke up after a moment of silence.

The brunette’s brow furrowed. “Slow. You have such a secretive culture, there’s hardly any literature.”

“Have you found the alphabet and grammar rules?”

“I have.”                        

“Good. Make a copy and don’t lose it. This will help you along with your studies.” Fleur handed her a lengthy tome, lettering covered the front, obviously the title, in curves and slashes that Hermione had yet to distinguish. She held the leather-bound book carefully, as if it were a priceless piece of history. Slowly, the Englishwoman stroked the cover with her fingertips, already trying to decipher the meaning of squiggles that currently meant nothing, but also held keys, steps, and instructions for everything.

Hermione could feel the importance in the pages she held. She didn’t know why, but her heart fluttered erratically in her chest when she recognized a few letters.

“You want me to read the whole thing?” She asked, still running her fingers over the book.

“You may not need the whole volume. That depends on several things.”

“Such as?”

“You’ll know once you read, Hermione. Just study.”

The brunette’s eyes stared into the Veela’s, calculating, analyzing. “Alright. Three weeks. I’ll have it cracked.”

Fleur smiled at the determination, the confidence in Hermione’s voice.  “Good. I hope you enjoy my culture, Hermione.” She stretched her arms and back, sighing with contentment. “It is beginning to get close to dinnertime. I think I will retire for a small hour, freshen up before then. I shall see you at the Great Hall, yes?” She stood, gathered her things, and kissed Hermione twice on both cheeks.

Hermione smiled. “Of course.”

 

 

* * *

 

Several days later, the English witch hurried through throngs of students, books clutched against her chest. Her time spent in the library had eased her nerves, but only for a short time. She now was tense again, being jostled and tossed around by other bodies. Hermione understood the excitement, but still was annoyed on several levels; the Champions would be chosen tonight after dinner and she was terrified for Fleur’s chance of acceptance.

Upon her arrival in the Great Hall, her heart sank when her eyes sought out the blonde, but found the seat next to hers empty. She sighed, her pace slower now. She settled herself in front of Harry, stowing her armful of books away in the confines of her bag.

“Where’s Fleur?” Harry asked quietly, glancing at the empty space.

“I’m not sure; I haven’t seen her since dinner yesterday.” Hermione replied, willing an edge of nonchalance in her voice.

“Well, she seems to have made her place permanent.” Ron muttered, taking a swig of pumpkin juice.

“Have you lost weight, Ronald? It seems Fleur’s presence here has incapacitated your appetite.” Hermione snapped.

Before he could respond, the huge doors swung open, a tall blonde Frenchwoman strode in, blank expression on her features. The room silenced, all eyes locking on the female.

A look of rebellion clouded Fleur Delacour’s pale face as she quickly approached the Gryffindor table. She stood behind Hermione, a hand resting on the brunette’s shoulder. She tossed her hair as she looked over her shoulder; eyes locked on a Bulgarian’s, who’d entered the Hall behind her.

Her eyes narrowed to blue slits, alive with anger and defiance. Viktor Krum strode forward, broad chest displayed proudly. Standing her full height, Fleur evenly matched him. The blonde watched the male with a predator’s unwavering gaze, tossing her head like a lioness as he passed behind her, cerulean eyes still narrowed dangerously.

Veela thrall was nearly visible, and it tattled on itself by portraying its danger. They felt like moths drawn to light; so entranced by it, but deathly aware of the threat posed. No one moved, much less take a breath, lest the pheromone be inhaled. Fleur continued to watch the Bulgarian until he had seated himself with other red-clad men. Only then did she take her seat beside Hermione, eyes boring into Viktor’s before greeting those whose company she shared, as if her dominant display meant nothing.

Three pairs of eyes looked at her curiously, two genuine, one clouded with sickly admiration, still feeling the effects of completely unrestrained thrall. Hermione smiled happily, obviously overjoyed to see her.

“Hello, Hermione.” Fleur purred, placing a delicate kiss on her cheek, dangerously close to the corner of her mouth. Hermione’s heart nearly failed her. The organ stuttered in its cavity, blood rushed to her face and other parts of her body. She ducked her head behind her hair in embarrassment.

“What was all that about?” Harry asked.

Fleur sighed. “He is quite…proud of his masculinity, and letting it be known. He doesn’t approve of mine and Hermione’s friendship and believes that I should care about what he approves or disapproves.” She huffed in irritation. “Bulgarians. He should know I am Veela.” Fleur rolled her eyes to the ceiling, staring at the gray clouds that hovered overhead. “But I do not wish to speak of the matter. I am not bothered and it is a waste of time.” Her eyes came back to down to find Hermione staring off to the Bulgarian's table.

“He always looks like he’s hunting something. I read that they do a lot of sport such as that at Durmstrang.” Hermione said softly.

Fleur narrowed her eyes. Krum was indeed hunting, but he himself was being watched carefully as well.

Ron finally leaped in, defending his favorite Quidditch player. “He’s always hunting the Snitch, Hermione! Maybe if you paid attention to some of mine and Harry’s conversations you’d know that!”

Her tone immediately escalated from thoughtful to irritated. “And perhaps, Ronald, if you pulled your head from your arse you’d see that we’re not on a field so there’s no bloody Snitch!”

Fleur flinched, hoping that she would never be the target of the sharp edge Hermione’s voice now possessed.

“Fleur, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you…” Harry said timidly. The blonde locked eyes with him, thankful for the distraction. She leant forward, forearms resting on the table; he did the same so they could whisper and hide from the verbal daggers that were being exchanged beside them.

“I know the Veela are secretive about their culture, and, rightfully so, but why do I remain immune to your thrall? Ron always ends up drooling over himself if he’s not acutely preoccupied, and we’ve been friends for a while now, you and I, but I’ve never felt any attraction to you that was anything close to Ron’s reactions. Not to say you’re not beautiful, you are, I just want to understand why I don’t feel that way.” Intelligent green eyes held hers, genuine curiosity plain on his features.

Fleur sighed, smiling a small smile. “To put it bluntly, your heart knows its counterpart.” Harry’s brow furrowed. “It is quite simple. Your heart knows whom it loves. When your mind finally realizes the truth the partnership may begin, and that may take some time for it to learn, but your heart is certain.” Harry looked down, perplexed.

“What is that supposed to mean, exactly?”

“The heart always knows, Harry. Sometimes intellect falls short of the knowledge the heart possesses. Until they align, there will always be a feeling of emptiness, of longing; one that is only filled when he or she is near, even though the mind may, and usually does, fail to notice for various periods of time, given the person.”

Harry processed this analogy carefully, seeing the symbolism before asking the next question. “To use your terminology, when will my mind know?”

“It may take years. The heart can be most shy at times, but it always loves with a fierce, undying love. Eventually, your intellect will put the clues and patterns together, such as the way your heart flutters when she or he walks by, or how they can influence your actions without saying a word, and you become aware of your true feelings. Everything falls into place.”

  He thought long and hard, silently trying to piece together whatever subtle hints may have been overlooked. “It will not come from study, Harry.” She chuckled. “It will hit when you do not think.”

“Does your heart know its counterpart?” he asked softly.

Fleur’s eyes shot to the brunette, still enveloped in the heated debate with Ron. Smiling sheepishly, she glanced back at Harry.

“Oui. I know.” She whispered back, a slight tinge of pink colored her cheeks as she looked away. “But I don’t know if she does. And I cannot simply tell her, she’d think me mad; I have to wait for her to seek answers on her own, and as stubborn as she is, there’s no telling how long it could be.”

Harry leaned back, studying the blonde, then the brunette at her side.

“Be careful.” He finally warned, leaning forward again. “Krum has his eyes on her. And so has Ron, for ages now, although he’s too much of a git to realize or understand. Be careful with her. Not only is she more than pretty enough to attract them, her intellect is too preoccupied to notice, but don’t dare tell her that.” He whispered. “And be prepared when Ron finds out.”

It was Fleur’s turn to lean back, and study the boy who lived most of his live in a cupboard, the first to study him without a thought to his scar or his fame.

Fleur opened her mouth to speak, but was cut off by Dumbledore’s voice. All eyes looked up, every word faded away into silence.

“Good evening, students.” He began. “Tonight is the night that has long been awaited. The Champions for the Triwizard Tournament shall be announced!” The Hall filled with excited chatter and the crossing of fingers. Silence reigned once more as the Headmaster continued to speak.

“Shall we begin?” The Goblet was brought forth, torches dimmed, blue flames entrancing everyone. Dumbledore gently touched the rim, asking who had been chosen.

The flames leapt up angrily, bringing a charred piece of paper with the surge of flame. Dumbledore caught it, and read the first name.

“The Bulgarian’s Champion is… Viktor Krum!” He announced, beckoning Viktor forward. The male strode up to his own Headmaster, standing proud and tall, predatory eyes glaring at Fleur.

The flames continued to flicker erratically, bringing another parchment forth. “The Hogwarts Champion is… Cedric Diggory!” The Hufflepuff table roared their laughs and encouragement, pushing him on. Cedric stood behind Dumbledore, awaiting the last Champion.

The blue inferno danced once more, rising up like a phoenix taking flight. A final parchment was given, crumbling a little in Dumbledore’s hands.

“And the final Champion from Beauxbaton’s… Fleur Delacour!”

The Hall erupted with applause as she blonde rose, bowing to Dumbledore before taking her place beside Madame Maxime. Hermione’s heart had stopped, her jaw slack, her lips parted slightly in disbelief. Her widened eyes never left the blonde.

“These are your Champions! Wish them well, for the Tasks may be few, but are extraordinarily demanding. Be warned that―” A gasp interrupted him. Fleur stiffened, hand on her wand. The Goblet’s flames danced again, spiraling upwards with a grand decorum, sputtering another name.

“Harry Potter…?” Dumbledore whispered. “Harry Potter?!” The young wizard was shoved forward, stumbling forth to the Headmaster. Angry snarls were thrown his way, hateful words spewed from allies’ mouths. No one cheered for him; poor Hermione was beside herself with worry and terror. Fleur met him halfway, eyes narrowed. She took Harry’s arm, leading him to stand between Dumbledore and Maxime, both looking at the Veela strangely, as if she’d trespassed; they both received cold looks in return. She stood next to Harry, sharing the foul words and looks with him.

Fleur’s display of comradeship and confidence was appalling. She stood tall, chin held high against challenges thrown at her, and eyes glaring back at any that dare look into them, spine ridged and proud. Harry was incredibly confused, burning in his clothes at the eyes on him. He wanted to crawl into a hole where no one would find him; he wanted to run, to scream hexes, to curse the sequence of events that made him who he was.

But still, in the embarrassed heat that flooded from him, Fleur stood tall and unmoving, taking the daggers thrown at him. She remained still, barely breathing, as if nothing unusual had occurred. In truth, nothing unusual _had_ occurred; Harry Potter was put into danger once more by an unknown hand in the grand school of Hogwarts where they could only teach him how to fight the troubles his name brought him as fast as they came to surface.

Hermione watched with wide, terrified eyes. Both Fleur and Harry stood as chosen Champions, Fleur proud and strong, confidence nearly visible, Harry standing beside her like a cold, lost puppy. She wanted to run up to them, to hug them, to scream, to cry, to burrow into the earth and emerge when this time had passed over her like the shadow of a cloud.

But no, she couldn’t envelop them in her embrace. She couldn’t protect them. She could only watch, standing by, whispering words of help and hope to them both. She felt incredibly hollow, so much so, her heartbeat whispered its presence to the rest of her body, despite the quickened contractions. A tear welled in her eye, and fell from her lashes with unabashed grace; the sorrow of that single tear could bring Eris to her _knees_ for causing such pain. When it hit the stone floor, it resonated in the Veela’s ear from across the great room.

Fleur raised her eyes; the icy glare replaced by a confused, worried glint, only to see a billowing of robes following fast their wearer. She took a step forward, her body lining itself to run, to chase, but a hand on her wrist stopped her. Madame stood over her, and shook her head once. The Veela within her fought, thrashing against her reigns, but Fleur controlled herself tightly. Her entire frame shook with effort, but steadfast. The Champions were led into a room adjacent to the Great Hall, where the matter of Harry was discussed heatedly.

Fleur never faltered, always standing by him, even when Dumbledore pushed him against a wall, questioning him. The Veela placed herself between the two, a growl building in her chest. Her teeth felt tight, a feeling she knew all too well…

“Mademoiselle Delacour, stand aside.” Maxime commanded. Fleur held her ground.

“Monsieur Potter has committed no crime.” She growled, accent thickening, her eyes flicking to Maxime for a moment. “Why would he wish to compete? He was glad, delighted even, when the age restriction was given; I saw it myself. He wished to have a safe, happy year. He wishes to be normal. Why would he go to such extreme extents to endanger his life by his own hand?”

“Stand aside, Fleur.” Maxime repeated.

“No.” Fleur spoke boldly, wavering slightly on the edge between French and English. “I will stand aside for the truth, which Monsieur Potter has given. If you all will speak as adults, then we can handle this situation as adults. Something is terribly wrong here, someone is to blame. I will protect him until it is discovered.”

Dumbledore withdrew, running a hand through his balding hair. Fleur visibly relaxed when the other professors withdrew as well, taking a step away from Harry, but still in close proximity.

“Why would you protect him?” Maxime questioned softly.

“He has done nothing wrong.” Fleur said shortly. 

Dumbledore, after studying the blonde closely, took a vial from Crouch.

“Here, Harry. Drink this. I… I’m sorry, but it must be done. The best liars in Azkaban will spill their guts with a few drops of this…” Harry drank the vial down; thankful for an alibi the wizards would accept besides the Veela.

Fleur stood back while Harry was questioned, coming clean from every worry they had. Crouch made the decision on Harry’s capability to compete; whether or not he himself entered his name into the Goblet, he had been chosen, thus signing a magical contract with the Goblet and by refusing to compete, serious consequences would be faced.

The Champions were exhausted by the end of their induction; even more so when they were informed that individual interviews were scheduled for tomorrow, with the one and only Rita Skeeter. Harry dragged his feet to the Gryffindor tower, Fleur chasing after him.

“Harry!” She called, finally reaching him when he paused.

“Yes, Fleur?”

“Could you do me a favor? Please, Harry. You, you’re the only one who can help with this.” She panted.

The young wizard smiled. “Of course, anything,”

“Please, take me with you to the Gryffindor Tower. I need to speak to Hermione. She must be… beside herself to say the very least.”

Harry nodded quickly. “Of course, of course, I’m sure she needs to see you too.”

They walked a while in silence, Fleur’s irritation flared upon reaching the damned interchangeable stairs. Harry stopped suddenly, turning to face her.

“Fleur…” He started softly. “Thank you, for what you did today.”

The Veela smiled sweetly at him, shrugging her shoulders. “There is no need, Harry. In my time here, despite my meeting Hermione, I have noticed things beyond her. You are a bright wizard, one who deserves a break. You wouldn’t put yourself in danger after running and fighting your whole life. You didn’t ask for your fame, or your scar. It is a blessing and a curse.” She placed a hand on his shoulder. “I consider you a friend, Harry. I will help you during this competition, but I will give it my best. I hope we can maintain a friendship through it all.”

Harry smiled, blushing. “I’m sure we will. Thank you, again, Fleur…” They began to walk again. “So, Hermione says your writing is improving.”

The blonde rolled her eyes. “I have been writing just fine for a while. However, I have taken Dumbledore’s advice. He advised me to feign struggles, to present Hermione with a challenge. At first, it was to draw her in, an excuse to spend time with her and allow a friendship to build. Now, I do it to see her so happy to help someone with their schoolwork.”

Harry chuckled. “She does enjoy that, doesn’t she?”

“One of the greatest joys of her life,” She sighed heavily.

“Is it different in the Veela world?” Harry asked suddenly. “The whole lesbian thing?”

Fleur was speechless for a moment as she processed the word ‘lesbian,’ but nodded her head. “It is vastly different. To the Veela, there is no such thing as hetero or homosexual; only mates, only those who love each other unconditionally until the day they both die. Their sex is of little interest to the tribes.”

“The day they _both_ die?” Harry asked, raising his eyebrows.

“Veela cannot live long without their mates. The phrase 'mate for life' is quite literally taken when it comes to Veela, but before death comes, it's pure torment, like losing half your soul. We welcome death. We welcome escape. We hope and pray that there is an afterlife where we can see our love again.” She sighed pitifully. “If a human mate dies, the true Veela emerges. Our brains revert to an animalistic state. We growl, bare our teeth, whimper, but we still cry. We still mourn. We scream to the heavens above us until our voices are cracked and hoarse. A human behaves in a similar manner, if their Veela dies, animalistic, mad with misery. It is a terrible thing to witness…” Fleur sighed, her eyes faraway and glassy.

Harry thought for a long, silent moment. “I’m sorry you had to see that, Fleur… But you and Hermione will be perfect once everything settles. You’ll have a long, happy life together, I’m sure.” The Veela smiled broadly.

“Ah, Mr. Potter!” A portrait exclaimed upon their arrival. “I’ve heard about your acceptance into the Tournament. I’m not sure whether to say congratulations or good riddance.” The Fat Lady turned her back, her arms crossed. “I heard about your display as well, Delacour.” The lady continued. “Very bold. Very stupid.”

“Mademoiselle, we do not want to intrude, simply wish passage. Mr. Potter has not committed any crime; the Ministry has cleared him. Please, allow us entrance.”

Harry mumbled the password, and after a few more painful minutes, the portrait swung open for them.

“Can I even be here?” Fleur asked.

Harry shrugged. “I dunno. It’s too late now. With Dumbledore’s knowledge of your relationship with Hermione, he’ll clear you, either way.”

“What if I get caught?”

“Say Dumbledore gave you passage anyway. You’ll be brought to his office, the question will be asked again, and he’ll cover you. He seems to be quite a sucker for lovesick individuals, according to previous years.”

Fleur nodded and drew a deep breath. They came into the light of the Common Room, which immediately silenced when they entered. Glares were given to Harry; a few eyes couldn’t help but rest on the Veela. Harry ducked his head and retreated into his quarters. Fleur politely asked where Hermione’s room was. A bold male provocatively offered to show her his room. She sent an icy, defiant glare his way, retorting that her magic could remove what he believed to be manhood with a single flick of her wand and that even then in its absence she wouldn’t be interested.

Another girl promptly punched the male just below his sternum, making him stagger backwards and fall to the floor, all the air pushed violently from his lungs as his diaphragm was temporarily paralyzed. She walked up to Fleur and took her hand, leading her up a flight of stairs after she apologized for the male’s behavior and introduced herself as Katie.

“That’s it.” She pointed to a door. “She hasn’t come out in a long while… Good luck.” Katie turned and walked away, waving over her shoulder when Fleur thanked her.

She knocked on the door softly, calling out. “Hermione? May I come in?” There was a faint scuttling noise inside, a quiet spell, and Hermione’s door opened. The Veela stepped in, her heart pounding in chest, and closed the door behind her. Hermione lay on her bed, her back to Fleur.

The blonde examined the room carefully, not quite believing she stood in Hermione’s quarters. The brunette’s scent filled the area, sweet and secure, like honeysuckle in the summer. Her belongings were strewn everywhere in organized disarray. The silence was think, and not yet ripe enough to break, so the Veela studied her surroundings. She stepped up to a bookshelf laden with thick tomes. A picture was framed and remained still, which confused the Veela greatly. Gingerly, she lifted the picture and carried it to the bed where she placed it on the nightstand before sitting down beside Hermione. She cast her gaze around again, trying to think of something to break the silence.

“Hermione…” Fleur whispered after several long moments. “I’m sorry…” the weight of a hand pressed softly on the brunette’s shoulder.

“What should you apologize for?” She replied tightly. “You’re only doing what you came here to do; compete. You tried and you made it. Your school is proud, your family is proud.”

“My family is always proud, my sweet. I apologize in place of the Goblet for causing you such worry. This was supposed to be a quiet year, I know.” The blonde’s fingers began playing with Hermione’s hair absentmindedly. “I will protect him, you know. Everything I learn or already know, I will teach him.” Bloodshot hazel eyes met blue as Hermione looked over her shoulder.

“You shouldn’t do that…”

“I will. It is already unfair for him to compete. Allow me this. His skill is skill. His knowledge is impaired with his status of year in Hogwarts. I will gladly give him assistance.” Hermione rolled over, facing Fleur. She pulled on her shoulder until she lay down beside her, and then buried her face in the blonde’s chest, seeking comfort, something that was quite unusual for her. Fleur wrapped her arms around her tightly, holding Hermione warmly, securely.  Fleur’s unrestrained scent surprised Hermione. It was undeniably feminine, but had an undertone of masculinity. It made a beautiful combination, sweet but with a hint of musk as well. It didn’t smell quite like her jumper that rested over the back of her chair; this scent was a sweeter, richer version.

Strong hands gently massaged the brunette’s back, relaxing the tense muscles there. Fleur comforted her, conjured a tissue and gently dabbed at the tears that seemed endless.

“You are far too beautiful to cry, Hermione.” Fleur murmured. “Goddesses should never cry…”

Hermione tried snort, but only sniffled loudly. The Frenchwoman’s smile slipped into a frown. Fleur positioned herself to lie flat on her back; arms still round Hermione, her head resting comfortably on the blonde’s chest. She ran her fingers though the curly brunette hair, and began to sing softly.

The Veela’s voice was absolutely beautiful, rising and falling in both dynamics and pitch gracefully. She sang in Italian, a few words recognizable to Hermione. Her voice never wavered with hesitation or insecurity, but with a gentle sweetness that was whispered in Hermione’s ear, only for her to hear. She sang this lullaby as a mother would to calm her child, to stop their tears and ease them into beautiful dreams of their mother’s angel voice.

Hermione’s tears slowed, but now left her eyes in the sheer amazement of the Veela’s voice. A smile cracked Hermione’s lips as Fleur finished her song.

“Do you feel better, Hermione?” Fleur asked softly.

“That was beautiful…” She whispered. “And you call me a goddess…” She scoffed.

Fleur chuckled. “Everything will work out, I assure you. If you ever need me to sing again, all you have to do is say; my people no longer have a need to sing, I suppose. Should I leave now? I do not wish to keep you from sleep.”

Hermione suddenly wanted to cry again if it meant the French witch would stay. “I… I don’t want you to leave…”

Fleur sighed and settled in more comfortably. “Alright, I shall stay.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“No matter what protocol we may be breaking, I say I don’t want you to leave and you’ll stay?”

“I’ll stay.”

Hermione thought about this for a long moment. Something seemed like there was a connection to be made, something she’d read somewhere… some short time ago…

“Shall I sleep on the floor?”

“No, I couldn’t have you do that… you’ll sleep here, with me.” Just by saying the words, butterflies swarmed in her stomach and images filled her head. Only then did she notice their position. She’d never rested in someone’s arms as she did in Fleur’s, and now, the focus of her fantasies held her, comforted her to a degree no one else had hoped to reach, a level Hermione didn’t know existed. The awareness of their proximity made her entire body heat up; where her body touched the Veela’s, warmth built, smoldered. She blushed darkly, deciding to hide her face under Fleur’s chin, the Veela’s sweet scent was strong there, begging for a kiss. The blonde shifted suddenly, reaching for something.

“Hermione?”

“Yes?”

“How did you manage to get a Prefect’s quarters?”

The Gryffindor chuckled. “She was scared to be by herself, and I was the only one who’d rather not have a roommate.”

The Veela nodded and asked her another question. “Why is it that these people refuse to move?”

Hermione opened her eyes, seeing that she held a photo of her family. She smiled widely. “That’s my parents. They have a Muggle camera, so those pictures don’t move.”

Fleur nodded, scrutinizing carefully. “It is a single moment frozen in time… not a collection. It is just so strange to see.”

The brunette smiled. “I know. It’s a nice reminder home sometimes.”

“You seem so happy, even though you don’t move… your mother is beautiful. You look just like her. Your hair is still almost exactly the same,” She chuckled. “Although it’s a little more tame now.”

Hermione blushed. “Thank you… that was taken before I left for Hogwarts my first year. They were so confused, but they let me go. I wish I could share it with them; this world I have to conquer, to tame.” She sighed heavily. “It must be easy being Veela.”

Fleur laughed outright at this. “My dearest Hermione, just in the Common Room, when I inquired where your room was, I was… ‘hit on’ by some unruly, pathetic boy who thinks he’s a man. Said he’d show me his room,” She rolled her eyes and laughed again. “Wretched boy, to think I’d hold interest or even curiosity…”

Hermione had stiffened in her arms, jaw clamped. These strange reactions startled her, but she didn’t allow herself time to process them. The anger and jealousy she’d never felt before reared up, as though good acquaintances with her. “What did you say to him?” she forced though her teeth.

“I politely told him that it was a ridiculous offer and that should he ever speak to me with such distain again, I’d remove his testicles with a single flick of my wand. And, of course, even in the absence of his ‘man’ hood, I still would hold no interest.”

Hermione relaxed a small degree upon hearing this. “Did anything else happen?”

“The girl who escorted me here, Katie, I believe, punched him so hard I heard the air rush out of his lungs and he fell backwards on his arse.”

Hermione made a mental note to thank Katie for her actions, which on normal circumstances, she wouldn’t have condoned.

“So you enjoy nebulae, I see.” Fleur commented quietly, staring at the ceiling.

“I do. My favorite is the Pillars of Creation. It hasn’t shown in a while though.”

The Veela studied silently. “I, too, enjoy astronomy. Is there an Astronomy Tower here?”

“Of course!” Hermione exclaimed. “Some nights,” She said, quieter now, telling a great secret. “When I can’t sleep, I’ll sneak out of the castle and sit up there a while, just looking, seeing how small everything really is, how small I really am.”

Fleur mused silently. “Shall we go some time? I would love to see your countryside from such a height.”

The two lay quietly together, discussing the stars, planets, and worlds beyond their sight. They made plans to go up to the tower and stare out the sky sometime, although with the chilling weather, the trip might have to wait until spring.

“It is getting late, Hermione.” Fleur whispered after a long talk of universes far away from where they lay. “Are you sure you want me to stay?”

Hermione nodded tiredly against her chest where she had lain for nearly an hour.

“I will not leave, then. Good night, Hermione.” Fleur kissed her cheek gently.

She burrowed beneath the blonde’s chin again, one arm over her flat stomach, her hand carelessly thrown over her hip. Fleur chuckled and stroked her back gently. Hermione leaped up suddenly, cursing, and rushed to her dresser and pulled out pajamas.

“Here, you shouldn’t sleep in your uniform.”

Fleur smiled and thanked her. She changed into Hermione’s clothes unashamed, making no effort to cover herself, but Hermione looked away, despite the stir in her chest.

Dressed fully now, showing far too much ankle in her pajama bottoms and a very appealing tank top that showed about an inch of her stomach, Fleur climbed back in to bed with the brunette, pulling the blankets around them and rolled to her side, Hermione lay beside her, no longer in the blonde’s warm arms.

The Veela fell asleep in sweet contentment, though her heart never slowed its pace from when it had quickened the moment she entered the room. For Hermione, sleep evaded her. She was incredibly hot, but did not desire to cool. Her body still shivered slightly when Fleur’s breath would bring her breasts closer to her own, since they currently shared a twin bed and were forced together in the small space; not that either truly minded, though their comfort with the situation was held secret.

While the blonde slept, Hermione studied her closely. Her skin looked so soft in the gentle moonlight; her features seemed to be sculpted from porcelain. Her hair was loosed from its uniform bind, falling freely over her shoulders and chest in gentle waves of blonde tresses. Her hands, dainty and well-manicured, clasp together beneath her chin in the most innocent manner. Although the sleeping Veela looked most fragile and harmless, her earlier displays of strength and dominance vied heavily with Hermione’s current opinion of her. The cold, defiant blue orbs that had burned so fiercely before, now rested beneath pale lids, their long, dark lashes brushing the tops of her cheeks.

Hermione’s fingers longed to reach out and touch the inviting cheek, her nose wished to smell the scent of the long blonde hair, her lips craved to taste the tempting Veela’s. Hermione rolled over swiftly, desperate to keep these thoughts from her mind. Something attracted her to the Veela, something she was quite uncertain whether to welcome or reject. On her side, she curled, trying urgently to create space between their bodies. There, she lay awake, praying to discover whatever it was that drew her to the blonde.

When she was sure Fleur was deep in sleep, she carefully rose from her bed, tiptoed to her desk, and opened the book of Veela Fleur had challenged her with. She was nearly halfway through the tome, quite a task indeed. She’d translated more than she ever believed was possible, and now read over the last few pages she had deciphered.

The tome was one of riddles, mysterious, misleading, and contradicting, a paradox in itself. She stared at the parchment, trying to make sense of the words now legible to her. Her eyes stung and watered, straining themselves in the dim light cast by the constellations on her ceiling. Unsatisfied with her findings, she sighed heavily and returned to bed, parchments abandoned in a pile on her desk. There, she continued her study of the Veela. Fleur looked most alluring in her clothes, if possible, even more beautiful.

The impending urge to taste her lips rose again with immense defiance and need. Again, she rolled to her side, her back pressed against Fleur’s body. Heat built quickly there, practically rolling forth from Hermione’s lustful body. She forced herself asleep with practiced, but great effort, slipping into deep, confusing dreams.


	7. Shamin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is the chapter in which shit gets real. Welcome to a bit of rambling and then the First Task! One thing to note here is the fact that I picture and describe the Hungarian Horntail as a much more ferocious version of Toothless. Except with teeth and fire and much, much bigger. And if you haven’t seen How to Train Your Dragon, you haven’t lived. Seriously. It’s awesome. I’m eighteen and thought my childhood soul had died long ago. It hasn’t and neither has yours. I hope you enjoy, and if you have any feedback, it's always welcome! And, if you'd like to speak to me privately or off this site, you can shoot me a message on Tumblr. My url is cadenceoftherain, and I'll be happy to hear from you/answer questions!  
> Much love,  
> RC

Sweat beaded over Hermione’s forehead. Her muscles contracted and relaxed, only to tighten again. She tossed and turned, throwing herself over but comfort evaded her. Skin grew hotter, smoldered, her breathing labored and strained. Her hands gripped at the sheets, clutching, grasping. She tried desperately to run, but the longer she ran, the blur of blonde and black hair became further from her line of sight. Flashes of color lit up her eyes, reddish brown and shining, bursts of flame and smoke. And blood. Lots of spilled blood.  
Desperately, she flicked her wand, but no magic burst forth. Again, and again she tried to cast a curse, even the unforgivable killing curse, but her wand was unresponsive, dead in her hands. She’d never fought without her wand before, and now knew what it felt like to truly be defenseless, an open, raw nerve. She couldn’t help without her wand, without her magic. Her intellect was worthless now, all her years of schooling gone to utter waste. She now stood helpless, watching Fleur and Harry being―  
Fleur woke, hearing Hermione’s sleeping struggles. The brunette had kicked her awake, and now, her breathing, constant moving, and occasional whimpers of terror were violently striking through the blonde’s sleep. She rose to her elbow, and with gentle force, shook Hermione.  
“Hermione,” She whispered, shaking her harder. “Hermione, please wake up. You’re having a nightmare.”  
Again, she shook her, very nearly lifting the girl from her bed as she did so. Dilated hazel eyes shot open, a loud, terrified gasp filling her lungs. The Veela studied her closely, trying to see that the brunette had fully awakened from her nightmare.  
Hermione’s arms shot out and constricted around Fleur, pulling her against her chest where the rapid, erratic heartbeat fluttered. The blonde resisted, but was crushed harder to her chest. For a few moments, she allowed herself to rest there, until Hermione’s grip relaxed slightly. She struggled to pull back and to open her arms, drawing the brunette to hold her and offer comfort. Hermione relented, allowing to be held for the moment as she burrowed into the blonde’s chest, one hand clutching the neckline of her shirt and the other held Fleur’s free hand.  
Her tears didn’t stop, not as they soaked though the Veela’s bed-shirt to her skin. She was held warmly, comfort was given no voice. The brunette fought back sobs, trying to remain composed, but shivers continued to shake her body and her breath refused to slow.  
“Listen to me, Hermione.” Fleur finally whispered, her voice low at her ear. “Match your breathing with mine. If you continue hyperventilating, you’ll never stop shaking nor crying. Just listen to my breaths, match them with your own.”  
Another quarter hour passed as she tried to control herself, eventually calming, her tears relented and breathing slowed but she continued to shiver. Fleur rubbed her back in slow, gentle circles, occasionally pressing her lips to Hermione’s forehead and cheek.  
“Do you want to talk about your nightmare?”  
Hermione shook her head against the Veela’s chest.  
“Do you remember it?”  
Another shake, no.  
Fleur sighed heavily. Hermione was too strong, she knew. Too strong to allow herself to break down and open herself to another, no matter how desperately she might need to. She hoped that one day she would be deemed worthy of such trust. Another shiver rocked her body.  
“You need to relax, Hermione.” She whispered softly. “The nightmare is over, and I’m here with you. You’re perfectly safe.”  
“I wasn’t in danger.” The reply wavered with another tremor. Fleur pressed another kiss to her forehead, feeling Hermione’s diaphragm kick as she held her breath in order to hold back a sob.  
“Then who was?”  
“You and Harry.” Another shiver followed by another kick. “That’s all I remember.” She sniffled loudly, and the Veela gave a tissue in response. Hermione dried her eyes, now red and puffy, then looked up at Fleur.  
“I’ve never been like this in front of anyone…”  
“No one can always be strong. Not even a friend of Harry Potter.”  
Hermione sighed, her head at ease on the Veela’s chest. Her breathing continued to slow, her tense body relaxed when another kiss was pressed to her forehead.  
“Just relax, mon ami. Both Harry and I will be just fine. Rest, Hermione, leave your worries for tomorrow.” The brunette listened to the Veela’s heartbeat for several long minutes. The rhythm found there soothed her weary spirit, granting peace and creating an intoxicating melody as the Veela drew breaths. Listening to this beautiful, natural song, she was lulled again to sleep, and, this time, she never turned away from Fleur’s chest, the warmth and comfort there too great to leave.

 

* * *

 

Time passed and the First Task approached. The Champions readied themselves to the best of their abilities; still not knowing the challenge forced them to change their studies and training routines to fit anything they could imagine they’d face. Fleur, ever graceful and lithe, practiced for hours on end, conditioning her body to a point it’d never reached before. Her ligaments and tendons had stretched to lengths Olympic medalists couldn’t reach, her dancer’s muscles toned and strong beneath pale skin.  
She’d been granted permission to train in the Forbidden Forest, from which she now emerged, musing on how she’d gotten passage in the first place. It had been somewhat of a challenge to obtain permission from the Headmistress and Headmaster; after arguing that the Tasks themselves were dangerous and that she wished to be conditioned to such danger. Admission was granted, but with the warning that Dumbledore’s permission did not mean much when entering into another’s territory. She’d entered the forest slowly, and dropped to one knee when the thundering of hooves sounded. The chief centaur had seemed surprised to find an intruder bowed as she was. Others objected their leader’s hesitance of killing her, since she was past the age of a foal and therefore had entered their forest on her own terms. The chief, however, saw something different in Fleur, and inquired of her heritage. Absolute passage was allowed when she presented proof of her race to the chief in the form of a gift; a small bundle of Veela feathers, the very best for making arrows.  
The Veela had ran with the centaurs, tracked prey and outran enemies with them. She learned to govern her fear and body, to take control of any situation. And, most importantly, she'd learned to her body’s natural impulses and instincts, stretching herself beyond what she believed was capable and making herself aware of her disadvantages to turn them to her favor.  
Her hands had calloused to a satisfying degree, though the other Beauxbaton females wrinkled their noses at them. They were strong hands, hands that wouldn’t bleed or blister easily now; no longer the lotioned, dainty things that hardly held a purpose for what she had to face. The Veela’s feet had endured the same conditioning; strong and calloused, in perfect tune with her environment. Skills her grandmother had taught her years ago she honed now, to feel the earth and the secrets she held, to seek out her enemies using the clues she had around her whether it be a broken branch or an imbalance in the atmosphere. She learned to cover her own trail as well, finally understanding the Veela pride her grandmother had tried to instill within her.  
 _No other people possess the ability the Veela have,_ she had said. _Take pride and use it to defend yourself, your family, and your freedoms. The Great Mother gave that to us. Never disrespect her by neglecting her gifts or sacrifice._  
As Fleur left the forest, she remembered the time she had shared with her dear grandmother. How she needed to thank her a thousand times for teaching such lessons. The Veela continued on, thinking now of Hermione. The brunette had withdrawn, as she had expected. Fleur knew Hermione would desire time to think to herself, as her feelings were becoming obvious, and as the First Task’s proximity loomed over them like the calm before the storm. The blonde sighed. Indeed, Hermione's emotions towards her were surfacing, enough to be noticed, but still, Fleur yearned for more. She longed to return to the night they had spent together, to hold the incarnation of warmth, intelligence, and beauty in her arms again. She pondered silently as she remembered the jumper that had not yet been returned to her.  
The dinner bell chimed, but she directed herself to the carriage to wash up and risk a few minutes of arriving late and losing a seat, perhaps even missing Hermione. But that could wait later. She’d be swamped with studies and worry about readying Harry for the fast-approaching Task, anyway.  
After thoroughly showering and dressing appropriately, she headed off to the Great Hall. When she had been seated, and seeing Hermione’s absence, she filled a plate and began eating, being sure to include plenty of protein and vitamin rich foods. She felt a presence behind her, one that was familiar, and upon turning, saw Harry looking terribly worried and discouraged. She smiled politely, beckoning him to sit.  
“Fleur…” He started when he had seated himself. “I know the First Task.”  
The Veela raised her eyebrow. “You do? And it is?”  
The young wizard sighed heavily and spoke bluntly. “Dragons.” Fleur sat back slightly, a smirk playing on her lips.  
“Dragons… hmm. This should be interesting.”  
“Interesting? You mean terrifying!”  
“No, simply interesting,” Fleur chuckled. “The Veela know dragons, and the dragons know Veela. Have you any idea the species?”  
“There’s four, one for each of us; the Welsh Green, the Swedish Short-Snout, the Chinese Fireball, and the Hungarian Horntail.”  
The blonde raised her eyebrows. “How do you know this?”  
“I know a guy, ok, just tell me, what are we going to do?” The hysteric wizard whispered hurriedly.  
“Listen to me, Harry.” The Veela chided. “Both the Green and Short-Snout are kittens if handled correctly. They, like any other creature, can smell fear. There’s actually a chemical that is released in your sweat when you’re afraid, and it’s quite potent, especially to them. Now, the trick is, don’t be afraid. It sounds ridiculous, I know, but don’t fear. Dragons are very territorial, so my guess is that they’ll be guarding something. Keep in mind that you will be entreating on they will think to be their territory. Respect them, just as I’ve heard you did with the Hippogriff last year.” She winked slyly. “Respect them, and they’ll fold their wings and purr for you. The Horntail and Fireball… they’re slightly different...”  
The two launched into a lesson of all they knew of the beasts, and how to handle them. Time passed before either could blink, finally deciding their battle plans, and soon the Hall was closing. The pair rose up together, and wished earnest luck to one another.  
The Veela sighed as she began the trek back to the carriage, where Madame met her and informed her of the Task. She feigned ignorance, taking it upon herself to protect Harry, but assured her Headmistress that she was fully capable of facing a dragon.  
The Task was only a few days away. She longed to see Hermione, but sadly knew she must wait and let her come when she was ready. It was a dangerous game; the Veela, stubborn, natural-born predators were forced to retrain their instincts and wait for their mate, rather than taking what they wished, and proved to be a very difficult task, indeed.  
Fleur settled into bed later that night, staring up at the stars through her window. Again, she curled on her side beneath her blankets, holding herself as if Hermione was in her arms. She longed for the brunette’s touch, her scent, her presence. Surly, she’d have the Veela book translated by now. Surly the pieces will begin falling into place soon…  
Fleur shook her head, turning her thoughts to the First Task. Her muscles ached, not nearly as much as they had on her first day of intense training, but enough to make her long for a bath rather than a quick shower. She breathed in deeply, remembering a particularly fascinating religion she’d read about a long time ago. Buddhism had taught her many skills applicable to everyday life. She now stopped thinking, losing herself in feeling the processes of her body as they occurred. She could feel the life within her, pulsing in time with her heart at every artery. The feel of breath entering and leaving her body was most relaxing as that triggered her tense muscles to follow suit and relax as well.  
This method had taken months to master, but now the Veela nearly melted into her bed, every thought neglected and every muscle resting. There, she was safe from her own subconscious, free from stress and fear alike.

Across campus, Hermione lay awake, staring up at her blank ceiling. She had grown tired of the world outside of her line of sight, surprising herself; for too much had been on her mind to ponder such things as vast as the universe. The Task was in two days, and she was overwhelmed with worry. Harry wasn’t ready for it, she knew. Everyone knew. But that never broke his spirit, something she admired greatly in him.  
She sighed, her thoughts turning to the Veela-girl who had become a distracting focal point of contemplation over the past few weeks. How was she faring? What had become of her? Since her training must be brutal, as she knew Harry’s was, the Veela must have taken it upon herself to condition her body to unimaginable lengths. The wizard’s self-discipline was at an incredibly high level, and she knew the Veela’s pride would only take her own discipline further. They could use any method they chose; Harry would use his broom, but Fleur? How would she conquer her dragon, and at what cost? The nightmare she’d endured when said Frenchwoman had stayed with her rushed back to memory. The vivid, bleeding colors painted a dreadful reminder in her memory, a picture she never wished to see with her physical eyes.  
Hermione rolled over and out of bed. At her cauldron, she brewed a sleeping tonic, knowing there was no other way she’d keep her eyes closed without an aid, and the phial of Fleur’s had long been exhausted and another not yet requested. After it had cooled and the dose was taken, she could feel its effects almost immediately, unfurling in her system and blurring her thoughts.  
Back in her bed, she stared out her window, hoping, nearly praying, for the safety, well-being, and another year of life for the two of them. A deep sigh lifted her chest. She’d do everything she could for the both of them. She would see the Veela; give her advice even if she didn’t need it, no matter what confusing feelings she harbored inside.

 

* * *

 

The day had come. The dawn of the First Task had died and noon had been born. Four strong, tense bodies stood tall, some chests proud and swollen, and some eyes narrowed and calculating, though raw nerves left the air sizzling with electricity.  
Fleur and Harry stood together, studying, always studying, their fellow Champions. The two had their plans arranged in theoretically flawless formations, contingency actions in place in their minds. They were the perfect soldiers, battle ready and book-smart of their challenge. An excited shiver rolled down their spines as the administrators, Headmasters and Barty Crouch entered the Champion’s tent, a small black bag in his hand.  
“Come, come!” he said, beckoning the Champions to gather in a circle around him. “Each beast contained within this pouch represents four very large, very real dragons. Select your beast.” Holding out the pouch, steam now rising up out of it, each contender reached into the heat, choosing a dragon, to which Crouch gave their respective names accordingly.  
Fleur held the Welsh Green in her palm, the emerald-scaled creature purred cutely at her. With a fingertip, she stroked the small beast’s back gently.  
This movement, as small and gentle as it was, did not go unnoticed by the keen eyes of Barty.  
“You, Veela!” He barked. “Too gentle is the beast that chose you. Switch with Mr. Potter. The Horntail will be less likely to be so docile.”  
“No!” Madame protested loudly from behind Fleur. “Ze beast chose ‘er! Why should she give eet up for ‘er heritage?”  
“No, Headmistress,” The blonde said softly. “I have studied. If Monsieur Crouch desires, I will face the Horntail, and emerge victorious.” She promptly traded with Harry; the young wizard regained some color and had the most relieved expression when the transaction was made. Maxime looked displeased, but did not argue.  
The authorities left the Champion’s tent, Hermione slipping though the folds of canvas when they were clear. She found Fleur’s arms and squeezed her tight, nearly melting when the usual kiss was pressed to her cheek. She withdrew for a moment and pulled Harry into the embrace as well. The two Champions were uncomfortably pressed together, but neither dared move. Hermione apologized to Fleur for not seeing her as much, and to Harry for not helping him adequately, although she’d spent every waking moment in the library with him, pouring over countless texts. Fleur closed her eyes, giving the comfort Hermione so desperately needed without words and just held her, but a bright flash lit up her eyes behind their lids. The cerulean shot open only to narrow dangerously, and the first thing they saw was Rita Skeeter standing before them beside a smoking camera.  
“Oh isn’t this just wonderful!” she sneered. The Veela pulled both Harry and Hermione behind her, positioning herself between the vile woman and the two younger students.  
“Oh? I intimidate the one and only Fleur Delacour?” She sashayed nearer.  
“Not in the least.” The Veela replied. “I only wish to keep your infectious diseases from contaminating Hermione and Harry.” For a moment, Skeeter looked as if Fleur had struck her before she schooled her expression. Her floating green quill shook irritably at her side, spitting ink at the Veela, which was met by a swift flick of her wand and made to splatter harmlessly against the canvas. The wand was never returned to Fleur’s waistband, instead remained casually at the Veela’s side in her right hand.  
“I suggest you leave, Mademoiselle Skeeter.” Fleur said sweetly. “Any press pass is void here.” Cedric and Krum had approached, but the Veela didn’t feel intimidated by the Bulgarian, not with her left hand still resting on Hermione’s arm behind her and her wand ever ready in the other. He too, felt no intimidation towards the blonde; rather, he did not wish to have another uncomfortable interview with Rita. He opened a fold of canvas.  
“This tent is for Champions and friends. It would be in everyone’s best interest if you took your business elsewhere.”  
Rita smiled at him, her eyes undressing him where he stood; Krum’s nose actually wrinkled as she did so. “Very well, then, I have everything I need and more…” She purred. Before she exited the tent, she threw a heated, scheming look at the Veela, then brushed against the male on her way out.  
Fleur turned, wrapping Harry and Hermione in her arms again. She whispered comforting things to them both, saying everything would be fine, that they both would walk out of the arena alive and well. She reassured her that she had thoroughly taught Harry how to handle the Welsh Green, but now pulled back to stare into the hazel abyss.  
“We can make up the lost time, Hermione. We’ll have plenty of more days to come, I promise you. The dragons know Veela, and the Horntail is no exception. Fear nothing.”

Fleur stood at the mouth of the arena, beneath an awning. The door had yet to open, even though she was the final Champion. Cedric had faced the Swedish Short-Snout first; Krum had prevailed over the Fireball, and Harry had emerged, for the first time in his life, without a scratch from the arena, leaving the Green purring and flattered. She hadn’t watched any fray, instead practiced the Buddhist breathing methods, preparing herself.  
Those practices had been to nearly no avail, for she now shivered with excitement. The crowd roared as the door was opened for her, growing louder as she tentatively stepped out. The Horntail was absent from her line of sight, making her ever more weary.  
She straightened her clothes, positioning the leather armor she wore so that it covered her most vulnerable regions, though she knew the armor was more for comfort and was a feeble attempt at protection. The crowd quieted as she came out into the light, anticipation thick, choked as they held their breath. The Veela placed her fist over her heart and bowed her head, a silent prayer on her lips.  
She looked up, a small smile playing on her mouth. Crouching low, she advanced to a pile of rocks and rubble. The Veela could feel her ancestor’s power rearing within her, preparing to burst forth. Her body began changing; her pupils grew tall and narrow, the light too bright. Her teeth felt tight, upper canines grew downward, pushing against those already there. This was Fleur’s most hated part of the Veela. When her blood boiled and the form of her predecessors came forth, she always lost a few teeth in order for new, sharp canines to grow down. A flash of pain came and went; she spit blood disgustingly, discarded teeth clattered on the ground. Her nails had grown considerably as well, now sharp and curved as talons.  
A few strands of hair whipped wildly about, somehow free from the bind. A breeze brought heat from wherever the Horntail hid out of sight, but the temperature was enough to tell her the beast was uncomfortably close. The Veela scanned her surroundings with utmost caution, studying every detail. With heightened senses, she could smell ashes, smoke, and blood. Her brow furrowed. Why would she smell blood? It was not human blood, she knew, but held a thicker scent, metallic and ancient.  
“Come on, Veela-girl, do something!” someone yelled from the stands. The earth beneath her feet quaked as a yellow eye rose above the stone slab in front of Fleur. She leaped backwards, barely escaping the scrape of a large, clawed paw.  
When the Veela touched the ground again, she ran forwards, skimming the dragon’s scales. The crowd gasped at the witch’s stupidity; who would run to a dragon? Fleur’s heart pounded in her chest, every lesson her grandmother taught her echoed in her head. Now, she mimicked her grandmother’s actions, circling the Horntail, allowing her skin to brush against hot scales. The dragon wheeled, tail making contact with the Veela, throwing her into the wall of the arena. Hermione released a sharp, strangled cry, paling ash-white when she saw blood.  
Fleur heard her cry above all other noise, and picked herself up painfully. Pulling her wand from its sheath at her calf, she spelled the pain away and stopped her bleeding with a quick motion. The movements were completed in three breathless seconds as she tumbled over the uneven ground in order to avoid another scrape of a paw. With her momentum so tightly controlled, she turned back to the beast, her wand returned to her right leg.  
The Horntail’s head lowered, squaring her in sight. Fleur waited against every instinct to run, and let the dragon advance first. She crouched down, every muscle ready. The beast growled lowly, the sound rumbling in its chest before lunging with lethal velocity and intent.  
The Veela ducked low then threw herself forward beneath the open muzzle. She grasped the muscled, scaled neck, her momentum carrying her on. She did not release her hold, so now her body hurled upwards, to the Horntail’s back.  
The beast thrashed, trying to turn its head back to attack the Veela astride it, but fortunately for Fleur, she sat at the beast’s shoulders, safe from the strong jaws and sudden burst of flame.  
Fleur clutched the smooth, hot black scales, with both her hands and her legs. Angrily, the Horntail took flight, wings beating hard against the wind. The Veela lost both balance and grip, and was thrown from the dragon’s back. Again, she landed on the hard stone, a wet sticky substance coating her skin.  
When she opened her eyes, she saw blood covered the ground. It wasn’t her own, or even human. Fleur’s eyes widened. Krum had slain his dragon. Anger shot through her. Other than her own, there wasn’t a drop of human blood on the ground, no indication that the dragon had injured him; she had even watched him walk from the arena perfectly able.  
The Veela leaped up again, determined to do something much harder than slaying a dragon. The Horntail turned around to face her again, head lowered. She waited for the first advance before she made her move. The Horntail thrust its heavy body forward, missing the Veela by inches. With inhuman grace, she leaped aside, staying low to the earth. It wheeled angrily, charging her again. They began a complex, dangerous dance, dodging bursts of flame and powerful strikes of the spiked tail, just as her ancestors had done before her.  
The dragon growled irritably, preparing to charge again. Fleur readied herself, focusing on her target. She leaped as the dragon did, slinking around the long neck and once more, used her momentum to reach its back. There, she held with every muscle, determined to remain astride the angry, wheeling beast, but again, fell to the ground. She saw the beast’s nostrils open and close swiftly, and dove for cover behind an enormous rock slab before a scorching inferno burst from the Horntail’s throat. She, ever tactical and lethal, scurried around the rock slab, again, taking the dragon by surprise as her weight suddenly rested on its back again. The Horntail roared its fury and irritation, snapping jaws tried desperately to reach the foreign weight it felt. Fire leapt from the jaws, so near the Veela, her skin turned red but did not burn.  
The fray met an incredible crescendo, taking to the air and straining against the chain that held the Horntail to the ground. Claws scraped against the stone wall of the arena, causing rocks to fall and clatter. Great wings beat hard against the wind, dust leaping into the air. The chain restraining the beast gave way, liberating it at last. They spiraled upwards, flames bursting forth, the Horntail thrashing, desperate to rid itself of the Veela.  
Hermione watched with wide eyes and a narrow throat. She ran to the edge of the box, pushing students out of her way. Wand drawn, she cast a hex, but not a spark emitted. She looked down at her hand, at what had been the vessel of beautiful magic powered by a vast intellect, now worthless. Dead. Flashes from her nightmare came back; the blood, the scales, the fire, the fear…  
She raised her eyes to see both the Veela and Horntail rushing high into the sky, writhing madly in desperation to get the Veela from its back. Fleur held on despite the attempts well-fought, and the Horntail lost control as she wrenched the dragon’s neck sideways, the two heading directly to the earth. Hermione watched in terror as dragon and Veela hurtled toward the ground, a loud, piercing cry ripping through her throat. The beast hit the earth’s surface, and dust rose up in enormous clouds, completely cloaking the arena, a loud, booming screech emitted from the dragon. The crowd held its breath, Hermione’s eyes searched the ground for any sign of movement, her heart stuttering wildly in her chest, sweat rolling from her brow.  
“They’re dead!” someone shouted, breaking the unbearable silence.  
No. No, no, no…  
The brunette stood rooted to the spot, wishing herself dead. Dust began to settle, and the golden eye of the Horntail could be seen. He shook himself irritably, dust falling from him. He stood proud and incredibly tranquil for his species and display. As the dust continued to settle, the prize, a golden egg, came to gleam in the light. Another heartbeat later, a clawed, pale hand held the egg up for all to see.  
The crowd gasped, Hermione nearly blacked out. The dust settled to reveal the Veela sitting astride the Horntail, prize and pride gleaming, although her left arm hung limply and her shoulder sat at an odd angle. Hermione screamed, fighting her way closer to Fleur, as close as the box would allow. The Horntail began to move after the Veela nudged him gently, coming to a halt at the awning of the arena. Fleur locked eyes with her, the catlike slits of her eyes still beguiling Hermione. The Veela flashed her a smile, sharp canines protruding from her upper and lower jaw.  
“I can’t believe it!” the announcer cried. “The Beauxbaton Champion had tamed the Horntail! This is bound to get incredible scores, which we will be seeing in just a few moments, so sit tight, you won’t want to miss this!”  
The judges stood together and gave their scores. Maxime ten, Dumbledore nine, Bagman eight, Crouch ten, and Karkaroff gave a four with a scowl. The Veela narrowed her eyes, but bowed her head nonetheless before she shifted her weight painfully and the Horntail moved again, shuffling out of the arena. Hermione looked after them, feeling faint. Students began clearing the boxes, as the Veela had been the last Champion to participate. Hermione fought again, pushing, shoving, and nearly bulldozing her way through the throngs.  
Finally, she reached the Veela, still sitting at the back of her tamed dragon. Spectators left a wide berth around the Horntail, studying him carefully. Hermione looked on, searching for damage on the Veela’s body. So far, all she saw was a bit of blood on her lip, a swollen shoulder, and the beginnings of a blackened eye. Nothing that was life threatening.  
Hagrid was the first to approach rider and dragon, admiration clear on his features.  
“’Ow did yeh manage tha’?” he breathed.  
Fleur laughed merrily, smiling though it looked painful. “The Veela and dragons have a long history. My people used to dance a very dangerous dance to tame them, usually only in times of war. But after a dragon has been tamed, it is an unbreakable bond between dragon and Veela. I don’t suppose I could keep him safe with you for the time being, hm, Hagrid?”  
Hagrid looked perplexed. “Him?” He repeated.  
“Yes, indeed.”  
“They were supposed to be females…”  
Hermione piped up suddenly, her intellect somehow overcoming her shock. “Males are just as defensive as females, perhaps more so, though the studies haven’t been conclusive. He remained standing in the opposite direction of the eggs, even took the care to hide them before Fleur entered the arena. As long as they remained safe and warm, they’d live, which is why he kept Fleur so far from them. It is the females who never travel far from their clutch.”  
Fleur nodded in confirmation. “If you want the rest of the clutch, they’re over there, behind that pile of rubble.”  
The giant slowly walked over to the pile Fleur had pointed to, the dragon’s eyes followed him the whole time, and a low growl built in his chest when the first egg was unearthed. The Veela ran a comforting hand over the black scales, cooing at the beast softly.  
“So, Hagrid, what do you say? He can stay and hatch some young?” Fleur smiled sweetly.  
The giant’s face stretched into a grin. “If the Headmaster and Mistress comply… I don’ suppose it’d hurt…”  
“The Madame would not want to destroy such a bond as what has been forged, and I am sure she can convince Dumbledore. Shamin won’t be any trouble.”  
“Shamin, eh?”  
“Oui. Apparently it is a family name.”  
Hagrid looked bewildered. “There’s a lot we don’ know, eh?”  
Fleur shook her head. “Not much I can tell you. It is a sacred bond we have formed and in no manner may I compromise that. All I can really say is that Veela and dragons have an incredibly complex system of sharing information with each other, which is how I know his name.”  
Hagrid contemplated her statement. “Well damn…” he muttered under his breath. “I suppos’ he can stay… he won’ hurt anyone, will he?”  
“Of course not, he will only attack by my command now.” She said looking down at the dragon. “He only wanted to protect the eggs.”  
Hagrid nodded. Fleur tried to throw her leg over the Horntail’s back to slide off, but tumbled down in pain, clutching her thigh. Hermione ran to her, the Horntail looked at her with concern in his eyes. The Veela grit her teeth and took a breath through them. Hagrid called for Madame Pomfrey’s assistance, huge, gentle hands coaxing the Veela to lean against the dragon. The Horntail nudged her shoulder gently, his eyes laden with apology. The adrenaline left the Veela’s blood, and as it did, the pain in her leg intensified, drawing whimpers from her lips as the suspected break throbbed.  
Pomfrey arrived hastily and quickly examined Fleur, confirming a broken leg and dislocated shoulder. Hagrid very carefully lifted her up into his arms and carried her in the direction of the medical tent that had been set up for emergencies.  
“I assure ‘oo, ze Champion will be treated most personally in ze carriage.” A blue-clad woman nearly growled. Hagrid paused mid-step, unsure of how to react to such insolent manners. Silently, he gaped at the girl, and Fleur spoke from his arms.  
“It is Hogwarts’ school that hosts this tournament.” She all but growled, still fierce with Veela features. “Be grateful for the offerings they present to us. Mademoiselle Pomfrey shall treat me, as she has already treated me before. I thank you for your concern, but I have full faith in the Hogwarts staff to heal me as they see fit.” The Veela turned her face away from the girl, the golden egg clutched in her hands, and wordlessly, the half-giant carried her. Shamin followed behind them, growled lowly at the snobbish young witch, and waited peacefully outside the emergency tent, much to the displeasure of the other visitors. The immense Horntail folded himself on the ground with ease, his head resting on his paws, narrow muzzle touching the grass, wings tucked close to his body, as though he was desperate to make himself as small as possible for the comfort to those who entered and exited the tent.  
Once the four arrived in the tent and Fleur was situated on the bed, Hagrid left the medi-witch to treat the injured Veela. The only parts of her anatomy Fleur worried over was her shoulder and leg, and insisted that they were the only thing attended to. Hermione was ordered out for the moment as the bone was reset and mended and as her shoulder was replaced, but allowed re-entrance as she prepared the potion she prescribed the Veela. When she saw her, Fleur was rolling the joint around, finding little pain and stiffness, but knew that tomorrow it’d be next to useless.  
Maxime entered the tent and tended to her Champion what she could, allowing the dragon to stay until something more ideal was possible. Fleur seemed relieved, and relaxed further into the bed as her headmistress left her to rest.  
Hermione looked at her with a pained expression, eyebrows furrowed together. She crossed the room to Fleur’s bedside. Gingerly, she wiped at the Veela’s lip, which was worse than she thought, now seeing that her eye was becoming a watercolor canvas of a black-and-blue contusion.  
“Well. That wasn’t so bad.”  
Hermione nearly broke into hysterical laughter. “You’re all battered and bruised up. How can you say it wasn’t that bad?”  
Fleur rolled her eyes. “Let’s face it. I challenged and tamed a dragon, a male Horntail at that and all I have is a blackened eye, split lip, a dislocated shoulder, and worst of all a broken leg. Most people would have died.”  
“That may be very true, however, that doesn’t mean it ‘wasn’t bad.’ You nearly gave me a heart attack…” She drew a deep breath. “Is there anything I can help you with?”  
The Veela shook her head and leaned deeper into her pillows. “Company is the only thing, since it’ll take a while for the Skele-Gro to finish healing the bone, and for the potion to finish brewing. You don’t have to stay, of course, I can entertain myself.”  
Hermione watched her carefully, studied how the bloodied lip and black eye marred the blonde’s otherwise perfect features, but made her look fearsome and powerful simultaneously. Why would she cast aside all cares to her beauty? Certainly she wasn’t nearly as superficial as the other females thought… perhaps that was the feature that attracted the English witch? Fleur’s care and willingness to comfort her weeks ago, as she was held in a warm embrace, safe from all nightmares, certainly that was where true beauty rested?  
“Of course not!” She finally exclaimed through her thoughts. “I can’t just leave you here, not after everything you’ve done for me. I’ll be happy to stay with you.”  
Fleur smiled happily and shuffled over to the edge of the bed. “Then I suggest you get comfortable, we could be here for a while.” Hermione hesitated briefly, and pressed a kiss to the blonde’s forehead. She lingered there for a moment longer than she knew she should have, but managed to pull herself away and sat down, facing the blonde.  
“Fleur Isabelle Delacour, should you ever worry me like that again, it will be the last thing you do. Does it hurt?” The question was uttered with concern and compassion, her voice losing the warning edge it had adopted.  
“Not really, just a little sore.” Fleur smiled, noting the blush on the Gryffindor’s cheeks. Hermione nodded and went silent in contemplation.  
Fleur looked at the golden prize on the table by the bed, still gleaming. She wondered what secret, what clue it contained. The Gryffindor followed her stare.  
“Shall I open it?” Fleur asked quietly, eyes intent and curiosity flaring.  
“I dunno.”  
“Would you?”  
Hermione blushed. “Probably…”  
“Well then,” Fleur replied, leaning over to the bedside table, and pressed the egg into Hermione’s hands. “Open it.”  
Hermione placed her fingertips on the peak of the egg, biting her lip. “Are you sure?”  
“Of course, take the honor.”  
Slowly, the brunette turned the lock, and three pieces fell open to release a terrible screech, resembling tearing metal. The two cringed, the Veela nearly drew her whole body into a ball, as her senses were still heightened. Hermione snapped the egg closed again, and instantly, the screech was contained once more.  
“What the hell was that?!” Hermione exclaimed.  
The Veela was perplexed. As dissonant as the screech had been, it had returned memories of stories from her childhood she couldn’t quite recall.  
“Hermione, would you mind escorting me to the Gryffindor Common room?” Fleur asked suddenly.  
“Why do you need to go there?”  
“I must speak to Harry. I need to congratulate him.”  
Hermione rolled her eyes. This Veela, she was sure, would be the death of her; there was certainly more to her than met the eye of many here at Hogwarts, more than those at Beauxbaton’s, where words were whispered behind her back, unaware of the nobility of the blonde. The English witch sighed, resting against the pillow.  
“Just rest for a few more minutes, you still need to calm down.” She said, noting that the catlike slits of the blonde’s eyes were still present. “The Veela-book said that your people turn into harpy-like creatures, when tension runs high.”  
Fleur took the invitation readily, lying beside the brunette. “It’s easier for the full-Veela. I’ve never had feathers before, only the eyes, nails and teeth. It’s really an unpleasant change, but it is a defense mechanism. I suppose it’s not supposed to be pleasant.”  
Hermione nodded and the two fell into comfortable silence. Fleur closed her eyes, and allowed herself to relax, feeling her body return to its original form. Her teeth, again, became tight, regretfully causing her to excuse herself to and conjure a tissue to dispose of her ever-changing canines.  
“I’m sorry it’s so disgusting. Blood and teeth and ugh,” She shivered, thoroughly wiping her mouth.  
“Don’t apologize. It happens, it’s just part of your blood; it’s not like you enjoy it.” Fleur’s eyebrows tweaked upwards for a moment, in silent agreement. The medi-witch entered the tent again, potion in hand  
“Alright, dear, you should be fine enough to walk. You’ll need to take a dose now, and another at night before bed. In the morning take another, and again before bed, and so forth. There’s enough there for three days’ dosing, by then everything should be all better again.” The witch looked critically at her before continuing. “Are you sure you want to keep that bruise? For such a beautiful girl…”  
“No, Madame, I’ll heal that all on my own and without potion. Thank you for your help,”  
The witch bowed slightly, measured a dose, and Fleur swallowed it with a grimace.  
“Come on,” Fleur said softly, beginning to rise as the medi-witch left the tent. “Shall we go?”  
Hermione studied the blonde carefully. “Your eyes are still slits.”  
The Veela shrugged nonchalance. “The first to come, last to go. The nails will have to be manicured on their own, though.” She held up her hand, nails two inches long and pointed. The brunette sighed, dug through her bag for a moment, and pulled out a file.  
“Let’s do that, then.” She suggested. Fleur looked down at her hands, decided them unsightly, and settled on the bed again. Hermione took a pale, calloused hand in her own, and began to return the nails to their former state. The Veela watched, amused, as she realized that this was the first time Hermione had held her hand.  
 _Come on, now._ She chided herself. _She hasn’t accepted it; stop thinking as though she has…_  
“How short do you want them?” The brunette asked.  
“Short enough that my fingertip exceeds them slightly; I can’t stand long nails.”  
Without looking up or pausing in her task and a smile in her voice, Hermione asked, “Why is that?”  
“They snag on everything and break hideously. I’d rather not worry about either possibility, and it’s not like I wear polish often. Even if I did, they don’t have to be long to wear it.” She answered with a shrug.  
The Gryffindor nodded, smiling. “I’m glad I’m not the only one. I can’t tell you how many times Ginny’s tried to get me to grow them out, but they always get ink-stained and polish can’t hide that, not to mention I have better things to do such as whatever made them ink-stained in the first place... She’s just recently given up trying,” she paused and inspected her own nails. “In fact, I could use a file myself, but that can wait for later, we undoubtedly have a celebration to attend to.”  
“Oh, I’m sure you Gryffindors will be up to no good at all,” Fleur laughed as she watched the English witch manicure her hands, musing silently. Hermione, a trained expert, had finished quickly, replaced her things back in her bag and rose, inspecting the Veela’s pupils.  
Seeing that they were nearly human again in appearance, the Gryffindor smiled happily and said, “Let’s go see Harry.” The Veela struggled to lift herself, but did so without assistance, and charmed the brew to shrink in order to fit inside her pocket. The Horntail was relieved to see the Veela walking freely, and nuzzled his affection. Hermione, still weary of the dragon, stayed in the tent while Fleur saw him off to Hagrid’s hut (hardly fifty yards away), where he built a fire and watched over his eggs. Upon returning, Fleur began the trek to the Gryffindor Tower with Hermione, limping slightly as she did.


	8. An Insult, a Choice, and an Unexpected Outing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, once more! So, as you've noticed, our girls have gotten very close as of late, and FINALLY Hermione will be forward with Fleur and ask her about the Veela and their mates. It'll be good :) In this chapter, I elaborate more on the Veela and what it's like growing up and facing the problems that come with such natural beauty. If it needs more explaining, please shoot me a message and I'll be happy to go into more depth. But, I must warn, Malfoy is an ass in this chapter, and will be in future ones. I don't mean to hurt anyone's feelings, but it's gonna be thing way. I hope you enjoy and continue reading! As usual, I'm happy to hear from all of you and what you think. This one's rather long, so settle in and get comfy! Have fun!  
> Much love,  
> RC

It was late in the evening before the Veela began to return to the Beauxbaton carriage. She had gone briefly before seeing Harry and participating in the festivities held in Gryffindor, but she’d be damned if the English didn’t throw a better party than her pretentious French colleagues. She’d been met with congratulations, of course, but nothing like the roaring of appreciation and amazement of the Gryffindors.

The Weasley twins, tricksters they were, knew how to congratulate the Champions, especially entertain them at the expense of other guests and residents with inventions such as Canary Creams, which made the common room a medley of witches and yellow feather-men. Ron, surprisingly enough and no doubt due to the bruise, had actually been able to keep up a conversation with the Veela in the room, even exchange words with her, and seemed happier than he had as of late; obvious signs of tension between he and Harry eased at the party drew on. Fleur found herself enjoying the English company, and they seemed to enjoy hers in return, after Harry had welcomed her so warmly upon her arrival with Hermione.

At first an outsider, the Gryffindors seemed weary of her presence there, but after Harry told them of her ‘slight assistance’ and when her warning of the ear-splitting noise that emitted from the golden egg proved true, she was accepted as a semi-trustworthy competing ally. Ginny, the slight redheaded sister of Ron, studied her carefully, her eyes flickering between Hermione the Veela. Fleur did not miss this notion, and Hermione’s downcast eyes and slight blush confirmed that she had confided in the redhead of her feelings.

Fleur smiled at the memory as she walked, pleased that the first ritual of the Veela was still progressing. Upon entering the carriage, she was met by Gabrielle, who looked up at her with narrowed, angry eyes.

“Where were you? I’ve been waiting up on you for ages!” she informed her, jabbing up at her with a crooked finger.

“My dearest Gabrielle, I was invited to another celebration. It would be rude of me if I hadn’t attended, no?” she asked softly in French.

“That’s not what I’m upset about.” The young Delacour said, settling her hands on her hips sternly. “You could have taken me!”

Fleur chuckled softly, hugging her litter sister tightly. “Next time, I promise you. I’m sure those Gryffindors will be up to no good soon enough. You’ll fit right in.” She teased.

The younger girl took it as a compliment. She beamed up at Fleur as she had so many times, most often when she was attempting to get out of trouble. “Promise?” She asked quietly.

The eldest outstretched her pinkie, which was met with her sister’s in a tight, childish embrace. “If my Hogwarts friends agree, then yes. Now, go on to bed. You need your rest.”

Gabrielle hugged her sister’s waist tightly. “You were better than the other Champions, Fleur.”

The elder Veela patted her back gently, rolling her eyes. “Go on, now, off to bed. We’ll check about that party during breakfast tomorrow, ok?”

Gabrielle nodded, and scurried off to her quarters after the two wished each other good night. The Veela fell asleep soundly the moment her head hit her pillow, completely exhausted and feeling as though she’d earned a week’s worth of sleep.

 

“Why don’t you just go for it?” Ginny asked again for the billionth time, grilling Hermione where she sat on her bed.

“Ginny… the book says the Veela mate for life. Can I be sure that I’d be happy? One kiss and she’ll be worshipping the ground I walk on. I’m fifteen! How can I be sure?”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “You kiss her. That’s how. The book said in some cryptic way or another that the mate of the Veela would never truly love another, just as the Veela would love no other. She already worships you. Just look at her. She’s waiting on _you._ Doesn’t the book say that too?”

Hermione looked down in thought. It was true; the book did say that Veela wait for their mates to accept the lifelong commitment of partnership, in which the breaking of that bond would kill the Veela. But Ginny was right about another thing. Fleur already worshipped her, already gave in to every wish and need, but also gave to others from the goodness of her heart, like her assistance to Harry with the Tournament.  She made an incredible friend to Hermione, an intellectual challenge, a complex mind and array of actions; she was an immense field of study herself.

Surly, if anyone was suited for Hermione, it was the blonde Veela. She was strong, capable, compassionate, loyal, intelligent, but still kept those around her smiling; well, those who could look upon her without judgment, jealousy, or pure sexual attraction. Hermione found herself pondering the idea of loving her, of resting in her arms and being able to reach up and kiss the lips that begged to be touched. The idea of their bodies, naked, intertwined, and writhing beneath the other’s touch briefly flashed across her mind, making her blush deeply as she squirmed where she sat.

“But she hasn’t said anything…”

“Does she need to? Look, she challenged you with the book, knowing you’d translate every word of it, so _maybe_ , you’d think there’s _some_ connection to be made somewhere. She’s a sweet girl once you come to know her, but not to everyone the way she is with you. She gravitates to you, orbits you, without meaning to.” Ginny paused, studying Hermione closely. “And you orbit her.”

The brunette looked up, startled by what her best friend just said. “But, I―”

“Don’t mean to. I know. Also what the book says, once again, in one cryptic way or another. I’ve never seen you act like you do when she’s around. When the Horntail fell out of the sky with her on his back? You went so pale, you looked like you’d been dead for hours; you’re paling now from the memory. Either tell her, or kiss her. Not doing either and waiting on her when it’s your move will only result in more sleepless nights and migraines.”

The brunette looked away, a deeper blush coloring her face. Could she bring herself to kiss the Veela? What would come of that? Hermione knew she hadn’t been acting herself lately, usually at least somewhat confident, but now second-guessing nearly everything.

“Fine. I’ll… I’ll do it.”

A smile stretched wide across Ginny’s face. “Great! Now, we can start planning everything, and―”

“Not yet, Ginny,” Hermione interrupted. “I have to talk to her first. I can’t just jump on her can I?”

“Well―”

“I can’t.” She said with a tone of finality, crawling under her blankets. “Now just get to sleep. It’s been a long day for the both of us.”

 

* * *

 

Fleur woke early, just like any other day, but this time with ease, despite the swollen shoulder, and with a longing for sunshine. She gently touched her sore eye with the tips of her fingers, surprised that she had awakened with the ability to see with both eyes. She rose, ran a comb through her hair, dressed, packed a small bag and headed outside into a crisp morning, mercifully free from classes or responsibility. The Veela trotted to Hagrid’s hut, an eager Shamin welcomed her fast approach. The Horntail nuzzled his Veela affectionately, nearly purring when she began petting his onyx scales.

“Well, g’mornin’, Fleur!” The giant called as he opened a window of his hut, waving happily.

“Bonjour, Hagrid!” The Veela called back. “He hasn’t been any trouble, has he?”

The bearded man chuckled. “’Course not! Been a real treat, actually. Got all his eggs safe and warm in the fire over there, made it so the plants wouldn’t burn, smart bugger. Takes care o’ the crows that come to peck at my gar’en, too. Quite the scarecrow, I’ll say!”

Fleur laughed in return, in such high spirits it nearly scared her. “Well, I’m going to borrow him for the morning, Professor, hopefully the scavengers haven’t woke yet.”

“Eh, he’ll take care ‘o ‘em, I’m sure. Have a nice mornin’, Fleur!”

“And you as well, Professor!” The Veela waved good-bye and climbed atop the black dragon, sitting rather comfortably behind his shoulders. Shamin began to walk, leisurely covering the campus grounds. Fleur thought of where she could possibly get a saddle and reins for the Horntail, though her grandmother would probably detest the idea, since Veela traditionally rode their dragons without such things.

The two enjoyed the early morning, settled on a hill and watched the sun rise over Black Lake, the Veela quite at ease on the ground between the dragon’s paws where he lay in the grass, his head resting beside her leg. Fleur opened her shoulder bag, pulling out a few sandwiches that the dragon took immediate interest in. Along with the breakfast, she retrieved the golden egg, and studied it carefully.

Shamin nudged her with his muzzle, breaking her concentration by wriggling his way beneath her arm to reach the prize of turkey sandwich that he devoured easily. The Veela laughed, and gave him another, which disappeared just as fast as the first. He then took to sniffing the ground carefully, forked tongue darting out to pick up lost crumbs.

Fleur took a bite of her breakfast and chewed carefully, again, looking at the egg in thought. She ran her hand over the golden surface, tempted to open it again. The Horntail watched her cautiously, again, nudging her with his nose.

“Shamin,” she chided, “Stop it, now, the last one’s mine.” She swatted at the insistent muzzle, but it did no good. Her fingers slipped and the egg opened, the same, horrid screech burst forth. Fleur dropped it, covering her ears, but her heart leaped into her throat when it rolled into the depths of Black Lake.

The Veela leaped up in frenzy, and dove into the frigid waters. A shock went through her body at the contact, her muscles failing, but then she heard a singsong voice calling out, and a bright light emitting from a golden outline.

_Come seek us where our voices sound…_

The Veela snatched the egg, and somehow found her way to the surface. Shamin barely caught her by the back of her shirt with his teeth, lifting her out of the water and set her down safely on shore, the egg silenced in the Veela’s grasp. The Horntail scratched the ground, gathering dead leaves and broken branches into a pile. With a gentle breath, he set them to burn near the Veela.

He lay behind Fleur, wrapping his warmth around her shivering form, even opened his wings to catch the heat from the small fire. The Veela clutched the golden egg, remembering the single line she’d heard over and over again…

It felt like ages, but she finally warmed and regained muscle movement. Her clothes dried out, terribly wrinkled and dirty, but dry all the same. Fleur looked at the dragon incredulously.

“You knew?” The golden eyes blinked once at her. “How?” A sigh left the Horntail’s nostrils, small sparks left with it. Fleur leaned back against the huge, scaled paw. Despite the bond, she couldn’t begin to think of a reason that could possibly reveal how the dragon knew the egg’s secret, and he wasn’t telling.

 

 

Fleur beamed as she rode back to Hagrid’s hut astride the Horntail, golden egg safely tucked away in the bag at her side. The sun had risen in the sky uninterrupted by cloud, promising the usually dismal English countryside a rare bath of sunlight. Her hair had dried in a terrible mess of blonde locks, but the Veela didn’t care. She had solved the mystery of her prize. Well, solved the mystery of the screech her prize released upon opening, since the full clue had yet to be deciphered. Nonetheless, she beamed with pride, and after reaching the carriage, the dragon settled beneath the shade of an oak tree while the Veela ran inside to shower.

When she emerged from the steaming water, she looked into the mirror for the first time that day, horrified at the intense purple her eye had adopted around it. The color contrasted with the deep blue of her iris, giving the pale skin a ghostly appearance. Fleur was surprised that it hadn’t swollen shut during the night, but disregarded any other worry over it. With her bloodline, she knew it’d be gone by sunrise the next day.

The Veela stepped out of the carriage, again presentable and clean, and saw that the Horntail had abandoned the oak’s shade, but in the distance, Fleur could see a ridge of black spines where he now rested at Hagrid’s hut, rekindling the fire for his eggs, for a column of smoke rose up from amongst the giant’s garden. A smile lifted the corners of her mouth, imagining the horde of baby dragons that would arrive soon. How busy Hagrid and Shamin would be, both new fathers to a handful of ankle biters. The Horntail was hatching at least half a dozen eggs, of which, she desperately hoped, all would bring forth young. But, then, of course, a decision would be faced. Would the babies return to Hungary, would Shamin even allow that? Or would they stay in the new, English countryside, domesticated and docile with humankind?

She pushed such thoughts from her mind as quickly as she could. Even though the Task had only been conquered the day before, the bond Fleur shared with the dragon was stronger than she could have imagined. Any depictions given by ancient Veela folklore couldn’t have prepared her for what she now had. A complex, deep connection bound by blood and soul alike. Submission and dominance, forced and dangerous on both their parts allowed a sacred magic to resurface from their respective bloods. Something that couldn’t be described, only felt. Though only yesterday, the bond had been made, she could sense the Horntail, feel his spirit, resting and warm by his hatch, just as he could sense hers, for now his head was raised, golden eyes pointed in her direction as he felt her unease. She cast the Horntail a reassuring smile, which was returned with a small flicker of flame from his nostrils.

Fleur started off towards the castle, her stomach grumbling a reminder of the stolen picnic-breakfast she’d, more or less, shared with her Horntail. Upon entering the Great Hall, applause broke out for her as they had after she’d emerged victorious from the Task. Gasps and stares also greeted her, fingers pointing to the nasty bruise she wore across her eye. But still, there were always those who looked past blemish, perhaps her bruise allowed those particularly sensitive to her thrall an opportunity to speak, using the discolored mark as a mask of her heritage.

“What’s it like?” A young Hufflepuff boy asked her. “To fight a dragon? To ride one?”

“It is… like no other experience. I would not recommend you try it, though.” She answered, winking her good eye. The young Hogwarts pupil, too young to be affected by thrall, smiled widely, blabbering to a friend about how, one day, he was going to Hungary to study dragons.

Fleur was met with these interview-type questions throughout her journey to her usual spot at the lion-engraved table, and was relieved when another applause signified the arrival of another Champion. She joined in clapping wholeheartedly while fighting to reach her seat, only to see a small, blonde, blue-clad child occupied it.

“Good morning, Gabrielle.” She said softly, placing a hand on her sister’s shoulder.

“Fleur!” The youngest Delacour piped, hugging her sister’s waist tightly, a fragment of newspaper she had been reading lay neglected on the table. “Madame wouldn’t allow me to come see you and your dragon. She said it was ‘oo dangerous for me. But I told her, ‘Fleur’s dragon wouldn’t ‘urt me, Madame! ‘E wouldn’t ‘urt anybody!’ But of course, she still refused. So she said,” She changed her voice to match her headmistress, in that annoyingly adorable way of small children, “‘If your zeester allows, zen you may, but unteel zen, ze answer iz no.’ So, later, can we go and―”

“Yes, yes, of course, Gabrielle. Allow me to coordinate the visit with Monsieur Hagrid.”

Gabrielle beamed up at Fleur, obviously pleased. Hermione, who sat next to her, was drawn from her morning paper, the one Gabrielle’s fragment had come from, a deep scowl etched onto her features. When her eyes took in the appearance of Fleur’s face, the scowl was replaced with intense worry as her hands fluttered about.

“My God, Fleur!” She exclaimed. “Your eye, it looks terrible! Here, here, sit; let me do something for it! There’s a new healing spell I’ve read about and―”

Fleur raised her hand, quieting the raid of worries. “Hermione, please,” She said with a chuckle. “With all due respect, I do not wish to be a guinea pig. Besides, there are good things that come with this blemish.”

“Such as?” the English witch asked quietly, her wand already drawn.

“People _talk_ to me, they do not simply drool. The questions I’ve been asked, they’re genuine, intelligent even. It is almost as though I’m _not_ Veela.” She whispered the last statement, her eyes shining.

“You… do not wish to be Veela?”

The blonde sighed, glancing at her younger sister, who was, thankfully, again entranced by an article in the paper of a unicorn sighting. “Let’s continue this conversation elsewhere… Would you mind?”

“No, of course not.” The brunette gathered her things, crumpled the paper in her hands irritably, and rose. Fleur saw that the boys were not down for breakfast yet, and sent Gabrielle to the Ravenclaw table with the other Beauxbaton students. After a moment of groaning, the younger girl left, accompanied by a friend of her own who had just arrived in the Hall.

The Veela snatched a biscuit from the table, her hunger overcoming her manners for a moment, though she swore she would take her time in eating it, against her stomach’s protests.

“So, what has the great Hermione Granger irritated before the sun has risen past the ninth hour?” She asked with a smile, noticing the way the younger witch discarded the paper haughtily as they began to roam the castle.

“Take a guess.”

“Hmm. Would it be a political matter?”

“It could be considered as such.”

“Media?”

“In the field.”

“A person, event, or action?”

“All three, but I’m more irritated over a person _because_ of his/her action that took place at a certain event.”

“Ah. Rita Skeeter.”

“Indeed.” Hermione sighed heavily. “I mean, really, couldn’t she make more money writing scripts for some trashy, Muggle soap opera rather than sabotaging innocent people’s lives?”

Fleur considered that silently for a moment as they rounded a corner. “Perhaps, but I doubt she’d would gain as much enjoyment from that. Nor do I believe she is creative enough to write a script from scratch, even one for a ‘trashy Muggle soap opera’ as you so expertly worded it.”

Hermione chuckled, rolling her eyes. “And you’re not interested in what she wrote?”

“I suppose a spark of curiosity was ignited, however. I know it’s rubbish, whatever it is. But, still, curiosity is a most gnawing hunger, isn’t it? Do tell me what the paper read.”

The brunette sighed, embarrassed. “Apparently the three of us are an item. You, Harry, and myself.”

The Veela guffawed with laughter; so much so, her cheeks were stinging with tension and her jaw threatened to lock into place. “Ah! That woman! It’s pitiful, really. In all our history, Veela take only one mate. It’s not something we can merely choose. Ha! That’s hilarious. You should’ve kept the paper. My grandmother would have it framed.”

Hermione laughed with her, allowing the Veela to lift her spirits. She didn’t suppose she had much to worry about, since hardly any student read the paper, and with the Veela commanding so much unspoken authority, both from her Champion standing and her unrestrained thrall that could reduce anyone to a puddle in the floor, she doubted anyone would ridicule her. But if rumor spread and Fleur wasn’t there, who was to stop anyone from scorning Hermione?

The brunette pondered this worriedly, but the blonde’s laughter only allowed so much concern to filter through her head, and she soon found herself joining in again. They rounded another corner and began climbing a staircase, when a slick-haired, green and silver clad boy shoved into Hermione.

Air rushed from her lungs by the sudden force there, a cackling laugh rang in her ear and made her blood first freeze, then set it to boil. Before she could react, before the other two young men who flanked the first could wipe the spit from their chins, Fleur had caught Hermione, holding her protectively at her back, and now stood facing the shorter, blonde male.

“You should watch your step, monsieur. Your next could land someone in the hospital wing.” Her voice was lowered, dangerous, drawling as she spoke. The double meaning of her sentence did not go unnoticed by either the blonde boy or Hermione; the other two, however, seemed most oblivious but at least had stopped laughing. 

“Well, maybe it’s your Mudblood whore who needs to watch it!” He retorted, throwing his chin in Hermione’s direction. Fleur moved with fluid, lithe precision, lethal in velocity and intent. She caught the boy by the throat and had his back against the wall before a wand could be reached for. Her pupils, always the first subject to change, had grown tall once more, now held centimeters from the boy’s own. Hermione now drew her wand, directing it towards the other two males who raised their hands, watching Fleur in shock and awe. The Veela’s voice, as beautiful as it was, rang out softly with the same sweet danger as her ancestor’s voices had lured seafaring men to their deaths.

“Hermione is not a whore by any means. She is not my, nor Harry’s lover. Should you choose to believe otherwise, I will not care. If you ever so much as raise your hand to Hermione, I will take your hand. Raise your wand; I will take your magic. Raise your voice and utter those words to her again; I will take your voice, am I clear?” She whispered acidly.

The young male swept the terrified expression from his features, narrowing his eyes. “You think you’re all that because you have Veela blood and you are a Champion. You’re a half-breed, French pig. You’re nothing. Wait till my father hears. I wonder what he’ll do about that beast the troll is keeping for you.” He sneered; a smile scrawled its way over his thin lips.

The female, ever languidly lethal, stared back, unblinking, her gaze never once wavered but bore through the male, into his soul and out of his body, pinning him to the wall at his back.

“Touch my dragon. Your death will be of your own mistake.” She whispered. With a graceful twist of her body, she threw the boy back to his friends, keeping herself in place between them and Hermione.

“Was that a threat?” The male sneered.

“No, it was not. It was a warning. Your father knows about Veela and dragons. He should have raised you better to know how to approach both, but I have no faith, considering how you couldn’t manage to bow for a Hippogriff.” The male looked as though the blonde had stricken him. “Word travels of good and bad, Draco. Don’t act so surprised.”

The male receded slowly, cursing quietly. “This isn’t over, half-breed!” He shouted as they started away.

“Quarter-breed.” Fleur growled, rolling her eyes. Hermione watched as the males left, her mood again soured. Her hand suddenly felt weight being forced upon it; it was the gentle Veela’s own, urging her to lower her wand again.

“Shall we continue?” Fleur asked pleasantly, apparently disregarding any other thoughts of the encounter, accent nearly entirely absent from her voice.

“Why don’t you want to be Veela, Fleur?” Hermione asked, allowing her attention to be returned to a less compulsive subject as they continued their walk.

The blonde sighed. “It’s not that I’m ashamed of my heritage, I’m quite proud; there are many advantages to it, of course, but also many faults. People treat me like normal, at least for now. If it hadn’t been for the bruise, he wouldn’t have said anything bad about you, and for that I apologize. The jealousy, the hatred, it steals friends away, which is why I’ve taken to being with you and Harry more than my Beauxbaton colleagues. The two of you treat me as if I were human. Females resent me, believing that I exceed their own beauty while males drool over themselves. I cannot have friends anymore, and I worry for Gabrielle so, for she only has a little time left.

“I’ve heard Hogwarts’ females speak of me. How I am cold, emotionless, so self-righteous I push people away. Who is there to push away? These beliefs, these thoughts, they are images they create themselves. But I don’t blame them. I pity the upbringings given to them, thinking that beauty is such an important thing.” Fleur paused, opening the door to the library for Hermione. They sat at the usual table, sunlight shining happily through the window.

“That is why I wanted to keep the bruise Shamin gave me. To show people that beauty isn’t everything, that I am normal to some degree. I still bruise, bleed, and break, even.” She concluded, shrugging her shoulders. Hermione watched her with the keen gaze that was her trademark. Her heart pounded in her chest, Ginny’s voice in her head, a question burning on her lips.

 _Come_ on _Granger!_  She yelled internally. _Just ask her! One simple question, and that’s it! You wanted to talk, you have a perfect opportunity to do so, just take the chance! What are you afraid of?_ She took several long moments to think about this. In truth, she was afraid of several things. The Veela’s answer, of course headed the list, but that wasn’t the root of her worry. She wasn’t sure which answer she wanted, that yes, her suspicions were true, or no, the Veela book was merely a challenge. She wanted to touch the Veela’s hand, for either an anchor or comfort she didn’t know which.

“Are you alright, Hermione?” Fleur whispered, reaching out for her hand. She stroked Hermione’s palm gingerly. “You seem pale. I hope that made sense…”

“Oh, yes, of course, I understand. It must be hard, being Veela.” _Just say it!_ “Why is it, if you don’t mind my asking, why is that Harry and I are the only ones who aren’t affected by your thrall?” The question slipped out, and the Veela’s eyes, the startling crystalline blue, the elliptical pupils, shot up, and for the first time, wavered. She turned her face away from Hermione; her bruised right eye no longer stole away from her beauty. Her skin flushed with a beautiful sweep of blush from her cheeks, down her throat, to what was exposed of her chest. A small smile cracked her lips as she cast her eyes away, pulling her hand back and folding them in her lap.

Hermione’s heart still pounded, waiting, yearning, hoping, fearing, hating the silence that pulsated with her blood… Fleur’s eyes came back up to meet hers, almost in a shy, nervous way. She’d never seen the Veela without her air of confidence or authority, so now she seemed small and without defense.

“Have you finished the Veela book, Hermione?” She asked quietly. The brunette nodded. A sigh left Fleur’s lips before her tongue darted out to wet them, then pressed them together before she worried her bottom lip with her teeth, searching for words. “Then you know of mates. You see, every soul and heart has its counterpart, and sometimes a few unfortunate souls are born at the wrong time and miss their mate. Harry’s heart knows its counterpart, so it is unaffected by my thrall. His heart, so to speak, has eyes only for his mate. His intellect has yet to learn of that love, for hearts and minds so rarely agree, and so the heart is shy to speak. Eventually, speak it will, and the partnership will begin.”

Hermione remained silent, except for her heart, remembering the chapter that had explained the phenomenon. “And me? Why can I hold a friendship with you?” She forced out, feigning calm.

Again, Fleur wet her lips. “For Veela, their mates can see past what others can. They are willing to look beyond the superficial features and see the soul of their Veela. It is very much a possessive relation; the Veela belongs wholly to her mate, but the mate can refuse if they wish. However, if they accept the partnership, and then renounce it, the Veela will die, for her heartbeat echoes from that of her love. If her love is no longer there, there is no source for the Veela’s heartbeat, therefore, no echo. However, if the mate never accepts, both will live on, but the Veela will never take a love. Only if a Veela is born at a time when her counterpart will not arrive during her lifetime may a Veela willingly take a love, most often another Veela, thus giving birth to full-bloods, but that, too, is choice.”

Fleur finished quietly, studying the wood grain pattern of their table intently. Hermione processed this information, her heart still fluttering in her chest. Beads of perspiration formed across her brow, the library suddenly filled with a sweltering heat that couldn’t, wouldn’t, recede. The Veela sat motionless in her chair, a nervous sweat made her palms slick as she, too, felt the temperature in the room change.

“So, as it would seem, _I_ am your mate?” Hermione whispered.

Fleur, again, wetted her lips. “The choice is yours, Hermione…” The Veela breathed, seemingly choked of air. Her voice was low, drawling in its accent. “But as it stands, you are my counterpart, and I will not force you do to anything.”

The brunette sat back. Her heart thundered in her chest, her vision clouded, her head was filled with a loud buzz at the blonde’s reply. The choice was hers to be made. She had no need to fear rejection of the Veela, for she would be welcomed with open arms, but Fleur would also allow her to have her freedom if she so wished. Although, Hermione thought, being with Fleur could very well be freedom itself. She would be protected, as Fleur demonstrated earlier, she would be loved, cherished, worshipped even. There wasn’t a doubt in her mind that she wouldn’t be happy with her.

“How does a Veela’s mate accept this partnership?” Hermione asked quietly, shaking her head to clear it and to recollect her thoughts. Fleur looked up, hopeful, but guarded as well.

“A kiss of the lips begins the partnership, and, well, lovemaking finishes it, completes the seal…” Fleur answered.

Hermione nodded, incredibly serene. “And if I asked to kiss you now?”

“I would kiss you.” The Veela responded instantly, but her voice was soft, patience in her tone.

“And if I wished to wait?”

“I would wait.”

Hermione cocked her head to the side, remembering when Fleur had answered her questions the night they had stayed together.

_And if I ask you to stay?_

_I’ll stay._

_Just like that?_

_Just like that._

Hermione pressed her lips together, considering all possibilities, questioning all things.

“When Draco insulted me, is this why you reacted so strongly?” She asked.

“Partly,” the Veela returned. “No one deserves to be treated in such a way, or called such foul names. Had it been directed to anyone, I would have held him to a wall. I wouldn’t have threatened him so darkly, but I would not stand silent. My blood is mudded too, you know.”

“Yeah, but that’s diff―”

“No, Hermione. It’s not.” She interrupted gruffly, her eyes locking on Hermione’s, her cobalt gaze even more intense with the purple blossom over her eye. “I am not of pure Veela blood, just as you are not of pure wizarding blood, but we both possess traits of purebloods. We both amount to something in our heritages. All, forgive me, Mudbloods do. We’re not scraps left over from evolution or passing genes. We matter too. And no one, for any reason, is going to be discriminated against in my presence, I don’t care who their father is.” Fleur finished strongly. The brunette studied the Veela for a time, finding her compassion and empathy incredibly admirable.

“Allow me to shift the conversation. Did you know that I was your mate when you stayed with me a few weeks ago?”

The blonde flushed again at this, but answered honestly. “I did. The day I fell here, in this library, I knew. But I did not stay with you for any depraved reason. My grandmother taught me that a Veela’s mate should first be her best friend, and I wanted that. Sleepovers are what best friends do, yes? That’s all I wanted. Just to comfort you in your time of need and be a friend for you. If you wish it, that’s all I’ll ever be.”

Again, Hermione processed this new information. She didn’t feel invaded, or embarrassed, but astounded. She wondered how much discipline, how much self-control it took. She made these thoughts known to the blonde, who again, answered honestly.

“I could never simply tell you, Hermione.” She said, chuckling. “You’d think me mad. A mate’s heart knows as well as the Veela’s, and it, too, needs time to process things, which is why I gave you the book; to give you knowledge and to present you with a challenge.”

“You did say that it is my choice, correct?” The Veela nodded. “Then I have a proposition.” Fleur leaned in, her brow knit together curiously, her eyes bright and interested. “I’m not going to kiss you, Fleur. However, I do want to see what it would be like. I want us to act as though I did kiss you, and act like a couple. I want to hold your hand and get a general feel for a relationship with you. You’ve been completely honest with me, and I owe you this,” She took a deep breath. “I feel very safe with you, Fleur. I feel protected and happy when I’m with you. If at all possible, I’d kiss you now, but that would be a very big step, one I want to think about before I take. The last thing I want to do is hurt you.” The brunette took the Veela’s hands in her own. “I want this to be a beginning of sorts… will that be ok?”

Fleur took Hermione’s hand, and brought it to her lips, kissing the pale skin gingerly. “It is an honor to accept this, Hermione.” Her voice rumbled, low in her throat. “I will wait as long as you wish.” She dropped another kiss on Hermione’s hand. Her voice changed to a more casual tone with her next sentence. “So, I can call you my girlfriend?”

Hermione smiled widely. “Of course,” Fleur rose out of her seat, still holding Hermione’s hand, the air of confidence about the blonde had returned to her, shining out vibrantly.

“Where are we going?”

“I find the area around Black Lake a rather beautiful place, especially on dragon-back. I believe you will gain the same kind of appreciation for it as I have.”

 

 

“Fleur, I really don’t know about this…”

“O, com’ on, now, he’s ‘armless!” Hagrid called, patting the Horntail’s flank. Shamin took intense interest in Hermione, studying her with appraising golden eyes.

“But, he’s a _Horntail…”_

“Yea’, but he’s Fleur’s dragon. Go on, he won’ ‘urt ya.” The brunette took a cautious step towards the huge male dragon, his shadow looming over her in the unusually sunny English afternoon. He sniffed at the air around her, gathering every ounce of qualitative data he could. Fleur sat at his back, watching carefully. By the bond, she knew Shamin was genuinely curious about the witch, and had no intention of bringing her harm. He simply wanted to learn everything he could about his Veela’s intended mate.

Hermione began to bow at her waist, but the Horntail gave no reaction to the gesture, just continued sniffing at her. So she remained bowed uncomfortably, waiting.

The Veela laughed at the sight. “He doesn’t care about that, Hermione! He knows who you are. Just curious, is all.” She slid from his back, a movement that went unnoticed by the dragon, and came to Hermione’s side. The brunette straightened slowly, and Fleur intertwined their fingers, lifting their hands to the dragon’s face, Hermione’s hand beneath her own. Shamin closed the distance between his scales and her hand, finally satisfied with his findings.

The heat of the scales surprised the witch; the smooth, rolling texture was unlike anything she’d ever touched, like a road that had been paved with smooth river pebbles. They were soft in a bizarre way, but also held the qualities of strong armor that bore no sign of scratches, though she was sure the beast had fought his share of battles. She gasped, looking at Fleur with excitement, her nervousness melting away as the Horntail sighed contentedly.

“Let me show you something.” Fleur whispered in her ear, pulling her to a small fire. What she saw astounded her. Though she’d studied dragons in the past and knew very well how they kept their young, she never thought she’d touch one, let alone be allowed near a hatch. Within the flames, eight eggs sat, moving occasionally on the coals. She sank down to her knees, along with the giant and the Veela, looking curiously. 

“We believe all of them have young inside,” The Veela said. “But we haven’t pinpointed when they'll hatch.” Shamin had joined them, watching his nest closely.

“Well, the cream color is just beginning to come in, it’ll be a few more months at least, even though they do move occasionally. Horntail young are restless, even in their eggs.” Hermione predicted. “What are you going to do with them?

Hagrid sighed. “I’d love to keep ‘em, but I doubt Dumbledore will let me. Can’t jus let ‘em go, either. And with Daddy being here, it’s a nasty situation. He won’ want to leave his Veela, that’s for sure. But between ‘is babies and her, it’s hard to decide…”

“I’d let him go, if he chose.” Fleur said. “But, you’re right, Hagrid. He won’t want to leave me. I’ll write to my grandmother, ask if she would be willing to take them all. They won’t be in Hungary, but at least the young will learn with Shamin, and I won’t lose him either.”

“But would he allow that?” Hermione asked.

Fleur shrugged. “I don’t know. I could tell him that I’d be with him at least once every week, he’d have to get used to my grandmother. And I’ll have to find a Floo.”

“I could spell one for you. It’s remarkably simple. Of course, there’s paperwork involved…” Hermione offered.

“Why don’t we just do it? It’s not like you’ve never broken a rule, Hermione.” Fleur jested.

“But, Fleur! I can’t, I mean I don―”

Hagrid laughed a booming laugh, a knowing glint in his eye. “You’re welcome to mine, Fleur. It’s legal, I assure you.”

“What is all this talk about ‘legal,’ if I may ask?” A voice chimed. All four heads turned towards the sound, Shamin rising from the ground.

Rita Skeeter leaned against the fence enclosing Hagrid’s garden, notepad in hand. The Horntail watched closely, moving in next to the Veela protectively.

“The simple network of Floo, Ms. Skeeter,” Hermione said carefully, eyes measuring the distance between herself and the other woman.

“Ah, I see. And why might you need to Floo?”

“What kind of business is it of yours?” Fleur returned, no hint of friendliness in her voice. “Champions’ personal matters are none of yours. A moment of comfort and worry was turned into something false and scandalous by your quill. Of course, you’d never believe that, would you? Just too simple a concept, merely friends trying to hold on to what little sanity they have in a world that is already filled with such despair.”

“Media, darling, is something much more complex than that, I assure you.”

“But what was real, what should have been reported was not? Oh yes, facing and stealing from dragons is a simple matter.” The Veela spit.

“Apparently for you, it was.”

Fleur snorted, incredibly unladylike. “To receive a black eye, split lip, dislocated shoulder and a broken leg was a streak of luck. To be alive is a miracle. To have tamed a Horntail, damned near impossible.” Hermione nudged Fleur, praying that she’d just stop talking.

Rita rolled her eyes. “Of course, of course. Perhaps in tomorrow’s paper I’ll write a better account of your feats. And your romance.” She added, eyeing the witches’ proximity.

“We’re friends, Rita. Just leave it at that.” Hermione said exasperated. Fleur stood, assisting Hagrid up as well. She climbed onto the dragon’s back, who seemed, as soon as she was seated, much more at ease. She offered Hermione a hand to help her to his back. Her first instinct was to resist, but after catching a challenging glance from the journalist, hesitated no longer, finding a safe, surprisingly comfortable spot behind one of the dragon’s spines directly in front of Fleur.

Shamin cast Hagrid a glance, one that was understood as _‘Keep her away from my nest.”_ The dragon began walking off, shuffling his lean body around the giant’s hordes of produce. When they were clear, the Horntail did what neither Hermione nor Fleur expected. He spread his massive black wings and took flight, Hermione’s hands immediately constricting around the dragon’s spines, her legs locked to the Horntail’s back and squeezed her eyes shut. Her breathing halted, though she was relieved that the lack of air kept her from screaming.

Wind was the only physical thing that could be felt, and that weightless lift in one’s belly that left a tingle filled both witches. Shamin soared higher, laying the campus of Hogwarts for them both to see, although Hermione’s face was turned and buried in the Veela’s neck, forbidding herself to peek.

“Look, Hermione.” Fleur whispered in her ear, her arms tight about the brunette’s waist for support, gently urging her to see the splendor that surrounded them. Sunlight shattered off the surface of Black Lake, the shadows of the Forbidden Forest seemed meek and harmless, the castle itself seemed to be the only architecture for miles and miles in the countryside, until one searched hard to find the village of Hogsmeade.

The brunette finally drew her face from Fleur’s hair and collarbone, allowing herself to look upon the earth. People were tiny specks, whole houses mere peas on a canvas of forest and plains that stretched out for miles. Shamin flew very carefully, gliding towards the ground again after he had spotted a promising landing site. When his paws struck the ground, both witches were jarred, but not terribly so, the sensation of the first real flight and landing had left their senses askew.

The Horntail folded his wings, looking pleased with himself as his two passengers clambered down from his back and staggered to the shade beneath a willow. He wandered to the water’s edge, taking a drink and startling the fish that swam near.

“Did you know he was going to fly?” Hermione asked, seating herself rather ungracefully next to Fleur on the grass.

The Veela laughed and shook her head. “No, I’ve never flown with him before and he didn’t give me a warning. But I trust him.”

Hermione lay back, staring up at the sky through the willow’s weeping branches. Her thoughts returned to her slowly, but she refused them to rest upon Rita Skeeter any longer. “How does it work? The bond the two of you share. There’s no account of it in the books I’ve read.”

“It’s complex. At times, we can sense the other’s emotions, instincts. The Veela used to fight their enemies from dragon-back, and having two minds connected, as ours are, is a very effective tactic. Other times, we see pictures, random images formed from thought. It’s a type of telepathy that has developed between our species. But since I’m only quarter-Veela, it’s much harder for me to communicate with him using that telepathy. Most often, I’m on the receiving end.” Fleur watched the Horntail as he roamed around the lake’s edge, watching the water intently. He lunged forward suddenly, splashing water briefly before lifting his head, victorious with a sizable fish in his jaws.

The Veela chuckled before she too lay back on the grass. “That journalist really irritates you, doesn’t she?”

Hermione sighed loudly, rolling her eyes. “More so than anyone else. Except, perhaps, Malfoy. Nearly nothing she writes is true, almost everything sabotages one person or another. You didn’t seem pleased yourself.”

“I’m not, but I don’t care. People already had terrible beliefs of me before the article was written.”

“I have another question.”

“Another? The great Hermione Granger continually asking me questions?” Fleur joked.

“I wouldn’t have to if your people weren’t so damn secretive, now would I?” She retorted, elbowing Fleur with a chuckle. “But in all seriousness, what is it like, having a same-sex mate in the Veela world?”

“The words homo- or heterosexual don’t exist in the Veela language or culture. Just mates who love each other unconditionally, nothing more complicated than that.”

“Hmm.” The brunette murmured. “That sounds much easier than human life… I don’t want to hide, but it’s dangerous, at least here, in the Muggle world, too. I don’t even know what my parents will say…”

Fleur propped herself on her elbow, looking down into Hermione’s worried eyes. She hesitated, and then placed her hand on her shoulder. “I will protect you, Hermione. I can promise my family will welcome you with open arms, should you choose to accept my partnership. As far as your parents, I’m willing to try my luck. I know it’ll be hard for them to understand, but I will explain everything to them to the best of my ability.” She paused, hesitating. “Is it strange for you? The idea of being with another woman?”

The English witch’s brow furrowed as she turned her eyes away, her lower lip worried by her teeth. “I’ve never thought about it, until you arrived. Schoolwork always headed my list of priorities, never boys or girls, or even friends. Then Harry and Ron came along, but I never really held interest in a relation with either of them. I’ve always been comfortable with close friendships with them, nothing more, but I can’t begin to imagine what it’d be like without either of them now. And then you walked through those doors, bumped into me in the library, charmed me with that accent, and tamed a bloody Horntail. I began having thoughts that had never occurred to me, urges, desires that I couldn’t name. I questioned myself for the first time when I realized I had developed a schoolgirl’s crush, those evenings we spent pouring over your essays…” She blushed darkly at the admission. “But I found I’m not bothered by the fact that you are female. In fact, I’m enticed by it. An exhibit of exploration I never thought I’d experience, especially with a Veela. What about you?”

The Veela took her time before answering. “I always knew I’d find my mate one day, and when I thought about it as a child, I had hoped for a female, even that young. I envied my father for having my mother as a mate, such a woman she is, and I desired the same soft kindness and fiery passion I know her to have. I knew either sex was a possibility, and I was comfortable with that, but still secretly hoped for a woman. As I said, the Veela are more understanding than other people, knowing that a mate is a mate and nothing else matters.

“When the Veela blood made itself know during my pubescent years, I found that I fancied the idea of holding my mate, rather than being held by them, which, given you are a smaller female than myself, will be a desire more easily met.” Fleur lay back down on the grass, the morning’s leftover dew soaked into her clothes as she closed her eyes. “But there is something else you should know.”

“And that is?”

“This relation of ours, it will move at your pace. Should you wish to test the waters of any actions, feel free. I do not wish to encroach on any uncertain grounds with you. And, perhaps the most important, do not feel obligated to assist me in the Tournament. You have too much on your mind already, and Harry needs all our help. I can manage just fine.” Fleur turned her head towards Hermione, meeting her gaze. The brunette nodded her understanding, smiling shyly and weaving her fingers through the Veela’s. It was innocent in nature, and Fleur seemed surprised at first, but held her hand all the same. Hermione bit her lip, noticing how the warm and slightly calloused hand felt beneath her own.

“But you are comfortable with keeping this a secret, right?”

“Of course. I know the risks. I am not willing to allow anything to be jeopardized.”

The two lay together silently for a long moment, looking up at the sky through the willow’s branches, noting the imperfect perfection of their geometry. The Horntail, satisfied with his catch of fish, joined their company, but preferred to remain in the sun, warming himself in the rays.

“Have you solved the egg?” Hermione asked.

“I have. Rather unpleasant story, actually. That brute there―” She pointed towards the Horntail. “―made me swim after it in the lake. Just looking at it, studying it, not daring to open it, when he decides to nudge at it with his muzzle. My fingers slipped, it opened, I dropped it to cringe, and it rolled into the lake. I dove into the water like an imbecile, and I heard voices singing from it. I haven’t been able to hear the rest, but I know how to now, at least.”

“Well isn’t that something!” Hermione exclaimed, jolting upright from the ground, turning to look at the Veela in disbelief. “He knew! The bloody beast knew!”

“Oui. Even picked me out of the water and built a fire to warm me up. Still won’t tell me how he knew, though.” She replied, smiling. “Must’ve known something was different about that egg in his hatch, I guess.”

“That’s fantastic! Harry will spend hours trying to crack it, though, but I’m certainly not going to tell him how to do it.” She laughed softly, thinking of how many long hours the wizard would spend in the library pouring over texts and how the egg’s secret would be the only thing motivating him to study any bloody thing. Shamin rose up again from his patch of sunlight, joining the witches in the shade and nudging his Veela expectantly.

“What does he want?” Hermione asked, eyeing the beast.

“To go back to his nest. He can only handle being away from them for so long, even though he knows they’re safe. I suppose we should return then…” Fleur answered regretfully, rising to her feet and helping the brunette to her own. Again, the two climbed to the peak of the dragon’s back, but were saved from an unexpected flight as Shamin chose to walk the distance to Hagrid’s hut.

 

* * *

 

Later that night, Fleur sat at her writing-table, her fingers ink stained and the shadow of an owl was thrown on the glass to her left as she waited for the of the conclusion of the letter.

_My dearest grandmother,_

_I am pleased to tell you that Hermione now knows of our relation, though she has yet to accept it. She is a careful, cautious young witch, and she will study every possibility. I do not worry. I am confident that by following your teachings, she will accept my love with an open heart and allow me to fulfill her dreams and desires as Veela do. She is something else, grandmother… I am amazed… Only seventeen years of life and I know my mate, and she knows of my heritage. What surprises me further is her easy acceptance of my sex. She doesn’t mind the fact that I am female, though it does concern her with the dangers it poses; it is ridiculous, really, Muggles and wizards still being unable to understand love at its purest. I know my capabilities to protect her, and I know that I will not fail, as I have demonstrated already, but that is a story for another time._

_There is another pressing issue. I have, as I’m sure you’ve heard, conquered and tamed a Hungarian Horntail as the First Task. His name is Shamin, and he is an expecting father of eight. I know it is a burden, but I must ask if you are willing to take him and his young to your home so they will be free from distress. There is a young boy here who has alarmed me and caused threat to my dragon and his young. If at all possible, would you be willing to see that they are accounted for on your land? I assure you Shamin will be a joy; I’m sure his children will grow to be the same. With you, they will be safe and free; here they will be targeted and endangered. I assure you that I will visit him at least once a week should you choose to accept._

_Thank you, for your lessons when I was young. They are the sole reason as to how I am alive today. I am connected with the true Veela, I know the Earth, I know my body’s abilities, and I now know my dragon. I will send Gabrielle to you this summer to learn; it will save her life one day._

_Your most loving grandchild,_

_Fleur_


	9. Tempas Fugit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright guys! Chapter Nine is here! Little bit of a time skip, but our heroines' relationship has progressed quite smoothly. I tried for a little bit of humor here, the kind I experience with my girlfriend, the silly, unexpected, good-natured ribbing that comes with a relationship. Please tell me if I failed terribly, I've never tried my hand in writing humor. Always happy to hear, and I hope you enjoy!  
> Much love,  
> RC

Fleur walked in sweet solitude in the chilled evening air, a bounce in her step. She wore her blue robes proudly; her long blonde hair tied back into a ponytail, black boots shod her feet. She breathed in the crisp air, a promise of winter weather, and shivered in delight. The Veela had always found winter to be her favorite season, second only to spring, when the sky turned white and smooth just as the rolling plains would when they were cloaked with heavy snow.

The sun had sunk off in the distance, and with every passing moment, the receding light took with it the warmth of the day. How quickly had December greeted them? Just last week seemed to be Thanksgiving; the week before seemed like it had been Halloween.

 _But,_ the Frenchwoman reasoned, _Time always flies in good company._  Up ahead, she could see Hermione waiting for her, and quickened her pace, greeting the brunette with a kiss to her forehead and cheek. Hermione kissed the Veela in return, rising to her tiptoes to reach properly, but settled for her neck instead.

“So,” the Veela began, the two starting off towards the Owlery. “It seems as though we could be expecting snow tonight. I have to say, I’m rather hopeful.”

“I wouldn’t think you’d like the snow, Fleur.” Hermione replied, “I hope it does as well. It may be strange of me, but I think I’d enjoy snow and day off school.”

The Veela chuckled. “I never would have guessed. I’d love to experience a good Hogwarts snowball brawl. Shamin may have to give me another bruise though,” She sighed.

“Actually, I believe some people are getting used to the idea of your being Veela, if that’s even possible. Either way, I’m sure the females wouldn’t mind brawling with you.” She jeered.

“Ah, yes, the jealous females of Hogwarts, if only they knew I had absolutely no interest in their males. Or their females, for that matter…” She threw a glance over her shoulder, seeing how far from the castle they were, and wove her fingers through Hermione’s, pulling the brunette closer to her as the wind picked up.

“If only the males realized that as well,” Hermione retorted.

“Ah, but life would be far too simple then, dearest.” Fleur chuckled.

The two continued along their way, chatting happily about their day and what they hoped tomorrow would bring. They spoke of the eggs, and made more predictions, even though hatching in captivity was rarely heard of and their forecasts were hardly accurate anyway. Fleur had yet to hear back from her grandmother, but painstakingly visited the Owlery every evening just in case. The boy who had threatened her dragon had yet to act on his word, which only made the two witches even more eager to transport the father and eggs to a safer location, preferably before they hatched.

They expressed their worries to one another as they arrived at the top of the spiral staircase, seeing that the Owlery was filled with birds. A medley of species had settled; everything from barn owls to pygmies. But finally, after many weeks of fruitless searching, the Veela found her grandmother’s owl. The great horned owl stood proud, her feathers preened and settled neatly over her body. Her feathers had a most interesting pattern of gray, black, and splashes of white, almost like the color of a stormy night. To her leg, a letter was tied, her grandmother’s scrawl across the front. Hermione found one of the school’s barn owls bore her own name in her mother’s writing, and took the envelope from the bird, rewarding him with a Knut and a bit of meat.

The Veela held out her hand, made a small noise between her teeth, and the owl came to her, lighting gently on the blonde’s arm, holding out her leg so the letter could be collected. Fleur pulled at a single thread, and the bow unraveled, freeing the bird from her burden as she hopped to another perch. Fleur opened the note, flicked her eyes over it, and folded it again, a smile turning up her lips.

“Grand-mère has been busy preparing for Shamin. Apparently that’s why it took so long to reply, but now everything’s in place, both for him and the babies.”

Hermione’s eyes sparkled at the news. “That’s fantastic! When will she arrive?”

“Tomorrow we hope.” Fleur said, hesitating. “I’ll have to fly with Shamin there. I don’t know how we’ll transport the eggs; I suppose I’ll have to have a word with Madame and Dumbledore about that. Gabrielle won’t be pleased…” The blonde sighed heavily, envisioning her mirror-twin’s wrath when she discovered the black dragon had left Hogwarts.

“All the more excuse to visit with her grandmother,” Hermione shrugged. “It’s better for them anyway. Keep that wretched boy and his father from harming them.”

The Veela nodded in agreement, feeding the owl a bit of meat. She took the gift and found another perch in the peak of the tower, waiting for a response letter. “That is true. However, it is a problem for tomorrow, and dinner is being served. We should head back, soon. A letter from your parents?” Fleur asked, eyeing the envelope as they turned and made their way back down.

“Yes, sometimes they come in late. Being Muggles, they don’t use owls, so more work goes into our letters and it can be troublesome.” Hermione murmured, still reading the letter. “They want to meet you, Fleur.”

The blonde’s eyes widened at the prospect. “Do they know?”

“No, not about us, not yet anyway, but they do know you’re Veela and what that means. I told them about how we became friends and how smart and kind you are. They say you’ll be as welcome in our home as Harry is.”

Fleur smiled happily, a blush touching her cheeks. “Well, the rest can come later, I suppose. I’ll be happy to meet them come summer.”

The wind whistled loudly, bringing with it stinging frost. Hermione snuggled into the Veela’s side, seeking out any warmth she had to offer. Fleur wrapped her arms securely around the younger girl, muttering in French as the ice-cold fingers found the Veela’s warm, bare belly.

“What was that?” the Gryffindor asked, pulling back so she could look at the blonde.

“I just wonder if you sometimes dress inappropriately for the weather so you have an excuse to lay your freezing hands on my stomach.”

The brunette flushed slightly. “I didn’t think it’d be _this_ cold…” Fleur chuckled, shielding her from the wind’s wrathful bellows. Finally urging Hermione to continue back down the stairs, the pair carefully picked their way down, and mercifully, Hermione’s frozen digits no longer assaulted the Veela’s abdomen, for now her arm lay round Fleur’s waist, an arm over the brunette’s shoulders.

“So, Fleur…” Hermione started slowly, being ever mindful of the ice beginning to form on the steps which they trod. “The Yule Ball is coming up in just a few weeks. Has anyone asked you?”

The blonde chuckled, rolling her eyes. “No one seems to be able to form an articulate sentence. Have you any suitors?” A swift shake of her head served as an answer. “Ah. I’m surprised; a beautiful, intelligent young woman like you still stag?” Hermione didn’t reply, her interest in the forming ice continually rising. The Veela halted her steps, turning to face the younger witch. “Hermione, would you be willing to accompany me to the Ball?”

Hermione looked up, hopeful but guarded. “Are you ready to come out like that?” She finally managed. “Everyone will see; everyone will know… We’ve only been together for a little while…”

The French witch sighed. “Hermione, I do not care what others think. I do not doubt my abilities to protect you or myself. You are my chosen mate, and I’m not ashamed of that.” She reasoned.  

“But I thought it would be a secret…”

“If you still wish it, of course.”

The Gryffindor felt a sudden surge of both rebellion and nerve and looked back up into Fleur’s eyes. “We shouldn’t have to hide. They can say what they like, but I don’t care anymore. I’ll be happy to go to the Ball with you,” She said decidedly, smiling at the blonde.

The brunette wrapped her arms around the Veela tightly, nuzzling against Fleur’s neck. She sighed contentedly, inhaling the blonde’s unique scent. A thought occurred to Fleur, a smile lifted her lips. She placed her right hand on Hermione’s hip, her left on her shoulder lightly. She took a small, sideways step, maneuvering around so that they know stood on a landing rather than a step, the wall of the Owlery shielding them from the wind.

The Veela took another step, carrying Hermione around slightly in a small circle. The brunette pulled away from Fleur’s chest, looking up at her skeptically.

“What are you doing?” She asked, allowing herself to be pulled around in another step.

“You don't remember? In the library when we fist met?" The brunette scrunched her eyebrows. "I’m trying to dance with you, silly. We never got around to it, remember? Someone kept putting it off.” She cocked an eyebrow at the smaller girl. Hermione flushed slightly, rooting her feet to the cement beneath them.

“This isn’t dancing.” She said flatly. “We’re just shuffling around in circles.”

“Well,” the Veela replied, pulling her closer. “This is hardly the place for more complex moves. Perhaps you can stay in my quarters tonight so I can teach you?” She raised her eyebrows with the invitation.  Hermione slapped her arm playfully, a smile turning up her lips.

“Miss Delacour! That would be highly inappropriate, would it not?” A wide grin graced her features and her eyes sparkled with mischief.

“Of course not! I’ll simply teach you to dance. Only the most innocent of activities, I assure you, Miss Granger.” Hermione reached up and placed a kiss to her girlfriend’s pale cheek, smiling as she did so.

“We’ll see. But for now, it’s dinnertime. We need to get to the Hall before someone forms a search party.”

The Veela grumbled in distaste, knowing that as soon as they came within sight of the castle any sign of affection would have to be relinquished. She held Hermione in her arms gently, nuzzling her nose into her hair lovingly, planting several kisses.

Hermione sighed contentedly, basking in Fleur’s warmth and affection. She never thought it’d be this easy to be with the blonde, never thought she’d feel such heat course through her with a single touch, despite the lioness’ newfound courage. She looked up at the Veela, cupping her cheek in her palm. Hermione gently gave her a kiss, near the corner of her mouth, earning a smile from her instantly. Fleur’s arms tightened around her, encircling her with strength and warmth.

“Come on, Fleur. Let’s get back.”

After several more minutes of stalling and stealing kisses, the two made their way back to the castle, reluctant to release the other’s hand. The atmosphere continued to adopt a biting chill, and soon the Veela gave up her uniform coat to the shivering English witch, who protested at first, but soon gave in to the protection it offered.

Upon reaching the Great Hall, Fleur took her coat back and set off to find Madame Maxime as well as Dumbledore and speak with them on the matter of Shamin, hoping to have a solution to write to her grandmother that night. Hermione joined Harry, Ron, Ginny, and even Gabrielle at the Gryffindor table, entering the conversation animatedly. 

Hermione found that she enjoyed the younger Delacour’s presence, a bright, bubbly young girl nearing the age where she felt a sort of entitlement to associate with her sister’s older friends, though not quite sure how. The blonde child seemed to be ever enchanted by the English witch, constantly asking her questions about her lessons, about topics Hermione enjoyed and studied, even complaining about Fleur occasionally.

“So, ‘as Grand-mère responded? I know Fleur wants ze ‘Orntail moved as soon as possible.” Gabrielle whispered to the brunette.

Hermione nodded, leaning towards her. “She has. Fleur is speaking to Madame and Dumbledore about it now.” The young Veela nodded, pleased.

“Mama will be thrilled. It ‘as been ages since she ‘as zeen a dragon.” She paused for a moment. “’Ow long do ze babies ‘ave before zey ‘atch?”

Hermione shrugged. “We can’t be certain. It should be soon, but no one has ever successfully hatched eggs before.” Fleur slid into the seat beside Hermione, beaming.

“So? How did it go?” Ginny piped up.

“Very well, Dumbledore has informed Grand-mère and tomorrow, he will lift his charms so she can Apperate off the grounds with the eggs, while I will fly to her land with Shamin. The hardest part will be convincing him to trust her with his eggs. Hopefully the telepathy has improved…”

“Speaking of eggs, Harry, how is yours coming along?” Hermione asked mischievously.

“Oh, um, fairly well, I guess. I believe the screeching has quieted a bit since the last time I opened it, I’m guessing that’s a good sign.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but let the subject drop.

The rest of the evening continued in such matter, a bit of fussing and laughter from onlookers, the normal dinner for the six of them. When they rose to leave, Fleur whispered lowly in Hermione’s ear.

“Have you thought about my offer?”

The brunette flushed slightly. “I suppose I could sneak into your quarters… does Maxime know?”

Fleur flashed her a smile. “She knows to some degree. So that is a yes?”

 

 

About a quarter of an hour later, the two were slinking though the Beauxbaton’s carriage and Hermione lost herself in complete awe of the interior. Like most wizarding structures, the carriage was far bigger on the inside than it was on the outside, making Hermione giggle as it brought back memories of a science fiction Muggle show she watched back home.

The carriage was just as lavish as it was large. Chandleries hung from the high ceilings, from clear crystal to those of sapphire and amethyst. Spiral staircases wound their way up to the dormitories, another hallway beneath them lead to a room that appeared to be a library and it took all the Veela’s strength to reign the lioness away from the temptation and the promise of a visit there. Fleur took her hand and lead her in the opposite direction, up a flight of stairs, and opened a large door into another room, painted a deep sapphire blue. A canopy bed dominated one corner, a desk littered with papers and quills sat beside it before an enormous window, an oil lamp casting the room in a golden glow with a flick of the Veela’s wand. A walk-in closet displayed the Veela’s collection of casual clothes, as well as several uniforms, another door lead to a private lavish bathroom. The finishing piece was a large bookcase on the opposite side of Fleur’s desk, laden with many tomes, in French and English. Her walls were adorned with art, from meticulous scrolls of Chinese paintings to curiously abstract Zen tangles. Fleur didn't seem to have a preferance when it came to art, so vast was her collection. Some of the pieces even boasted the blonde's signature, no doubt made during her years at Beauxbaton's.

“Is this just your room?” She asked softly.

Fleur nodded in confirmation. “All the seventh year students have their own quarters like this. The solitude is rather nice, considering my relationship with the other students.”

Hermione studied the contents of Fleur’s room carefully, examining the many items it contained. She found herself studying the bookcase more than anything. Fleur had quite an array of selections, books on magic and magical creatures, Muggle books, psychology books, other science texts, varying religious texts, and even a few romance novels. With a smile, she lifted one, its cover boasting two naked females entwined in each other’s arms. Of course, it was in French, but from skimming the summary on the back, Hermione could identify quite a few words that promised to deliver. She taunted the Veela with it, but was met with a shrug and small smile.

“I figured I could explore the territory. Wouldn’t hurt.” She winked at Hermione before slipping her shoes from her feet. The brunette turned back to the bookcase, replacing the novel, and noticed how there was a rather large space left on one of the shelves.

“That’s the Veela book’s space, isn’t it?” Hermione said, pointing.

Fleur nodded. “Indeed it is. I’m sure I’ll fill it though. I hear Hogsmeade has a bookstore. Surely I can find something.”

“You’re not taking it back?” The younger witch asked.

The Veela shook her head. “It’s a tradition that Veela pass our culture’s secrets to our mates and daughters, although it should be gone by now,”

"What do you mean it should be gone by now?"

"My culture isn't made for books. For generations, we've passed our secrets from mouth to ear. After you finish the whole thing, it'll degenerate. It was a tricky spell, I assure you."

Hermione looked relieved but disappointed at the same time. "That's why I can't find it..." She murmured.

Fleur laughed in return, moving to stand behind the brunette. "Don't be disappointed, dearest. It served its purpose." Fleur closed the space between her body and Hermione’s, wrapping her arms around the girl’s waist. She pressed several gentle kisses to her shoulders, untying Hermione’s robes and removing the outermost layer, which she hung on the back of her desk chair.

“You can pick anything from the bottom drawer to change into, dear. I’ll be right back.” With that, the Veela padded off into the adjacent bathroom, and soon emerged dressed in flannel pajama pants and a tight fitting tank top. Hermione laughed out right at the sight before her, imagining the Delacour heiress to have a more refined taste.

Fleur narrowed her eyes, cocking one hip out and settling a hand on the other. This was new; she hadn’t expected laughter while her torso was clad in a shirt so tight, especially when a bra wasn’t present to conceal her breasts. “Something funny, Miss Granger?”

Hermione rolled her eyes, still giggling. “Flannel, Fleur? Really?” She stepped up to the Veela, kissing her jawline lovingly. “I know Veela don’t choose their mates, but you’re looking very lesbian this evening,”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean? It’s comfortable _and_ warm _and_ unappealing, so you will focus more on your feet rather than me. Perhaps you should share the torture before you mock me. Here, try this.” The Veela promptly rummaged through her dresser, tossing strips of lacy fabric, tags still on them, at the Englishwoman, who held up the garments with distain.

“I’m not wearing any of this.”

“Neither will I. Tell my mother that, will you?” Fleur retorted. “However, it’s that or this nice, comfortable flannel, whichever you prefer.” Hermione sighed heavily, taking the more comforting option and changed into clothes similar to the Veela’s. “Now, shall we begin the lesson?”

Fleur gingerly took Hermione’s hand in hers, positioning the brunette’s free hand on her shoulder before settling her free hand on the other’s waist. The Veela began a simple waltz, very slow at first, but gradually sped up as Hermione’s confidence grew. It was quite an odd sight, the two of them dancing in nightwear, twirling round and round the large bedroom for hours, eventually extending Hermione’s torture by forcing her to wear heels, just to ‘get a feel for it’. Although the Gryffindor felt utterly ridiculous, she found herself enjoying the experience, laughing as the Veela executed overly exaggerated movements, curtseying with a pant leg of her pajamas.

They stayed up into the wee hours of the night practicing; hushed giggles and the click of heels against the wooden floors were the only sounds that broke the silence. When they finally took to bed, it was with tired legs and aching feet, prayers for snow where offered up in the air surrounding them to any willing deity.

 

* * *

 

When morning’s light broke, Fleur found the gods answered their wish. The room was incredibly cold, frost had clouded the window, a few inches of snow had collected on the sill, and the two witches were curled into one another, seeking out any warmth the other’s body had to share. Fleur woke up buried in a mass of brunette waves that had somehow been thrown over her eyes sometime during the night. Hermione was snuggled against her left side, her hair a mess of dark tendrils.

The Veela found herself intrigued by the beauty at her side, and upon brushing her locks away she found Hermione wore a small, contented grin, even in sleep. Fleur smiled, kissing her cheek lovingly. She studied Hermione carefully, admiring the dusting of freckles across the girl’s cheeks, the way her eye crinkled at the corner as her smile grew when she burrowed closer to the blonde.

“Good morning, ma belle,” Fleur whispered against the girl’s cheek. Hermione mumbled in response, drawing the duvet tighter around her. The Veela nuzzled her neck gently. “We got our wish. It snowed rather heavily by the looks of it.” Again, Hermione responded inarticulately. The Veela sighed heavily, wrapping her arm tighter around the brunette, who soon rolled to her opposite side so Fleur’s body would warm her back. The blonde soon followed suit, shifting so that her chin rested on the Gryffindor’s shoulder and no space was left between their bodies. Long, slow kisses were planted upon the expanse of bared skin; Hermione allowed her more space and sighed contentedly. After several long, comfortably silent minutes, Hermione spoke.

“What do those symbols mean, on the Chinese painting of the samurai?”

Fleur’s eyes flickered over the scroll for a moment, appreciating the artistry of the somber warrior on his knees, his weapon held in praying hands. Chinese lettering was painted elegantly in the top left corner, in black over a pale cherry tree. 

“That is from the Tao Te Ching, a Chinese philosophy, written by Lao Tzu. It’s actually the whole thirty-first chapter.”

“Read it to me.”

Fleur smiled. She couldn’t read Chinese; even so, when she received the gift from her mother, she read the entire Tao and memorized every word of that particular chapter, which from memory she again recited softly in Hermione’s ear.

**_“Weapons are the tools of violence; all decent men detest them._ **

**_Weapons are the tools of fear; a decent man will avoid them except in the direst necessity and, if compelled, will use them only with the utmost restraint._ **

**_Peace is his highest value._ **

**_If the peace has been shattered, how can he be content?_ **

**_His enemies are not demons, but human beings like himself._ **

**_He doesn’t wish them personal harm._ **

**_Nor does he rejoice in victory._ **

**_How could he rejoice in victory and delight in the slaughter of men?_ **

**_He enters a battle gravely, with sorrow and great compassion, as if he were attending a funeral.”_ **

Hermione lay silent. She’d read Chinese philosophy before, but couldn’t recall reading the Tao. A stirring of thoughts fluttered through her mind, eliciting an abundance of curiosity. She turned her attention to another, again Chinese, but this time featured a woman sitting in a light blue kimono, her dark hair in a neat bun atop her head, held with chopsticks, a porcelain teacup in her hands.

“And that one?” She asked pointing.

“That is the part of the forty-sixth chapter.” She paused and recited her second favorite piece.

**_“There is no greater illusion than fear,_ **

**_No greater wrong than preparing to defend yourself,_ **

**_No greater misfortune than having an enemy.”_ **

The brunette mulled over the words Fleur recited, pondering their mystery and depth. She nodded in affirmation.

“Today, I shall research this book for myself, should I find the strength to roll from this bed.” she sighed.

The blond chuckled behind her. “Should you fail to appear in the library, a copy is in my bookshelf,” She kissed Hermione’s bare skin again, earning a lazy sigh of contentment from her as she rolled her shoulder, allowing the Veela more space.

“Maybe later…” Hermione breathed as Fleur continued to kiss her shoulder, nuzzling into the crook of the other’s neck.

For hours, it seemed, they lay wrapped in the warmth of one another, basking in the sweet, languid morning. In reality, however, this time was short lived; Fleur’s grandmother would be arriving soon to take the Horntail’s eggs to the safety of her home. After the two dragged each other from the warm, enticing folds of Fleur’s blankets, they trudged up to the Great Hall, took a small breakfast, and the Veela set about preparing for her grandmother’s arrival.

 

 

Shamin was anything but willing to cooperate. Despite her best efforts to calm the beast, the Horntail continued to fight the Veela, refusing to leave his eggs. She tried to send him the best thoughts she could, conjuring pictures of her grandmother’s land and the two of them there, the young learning how to fly in the clear, open skies. Still, he resisted. Her grandmother, sitting beside Hagrid on a tree stump, had the most bemused expression on her face. Hermione sat near her, having only introduced herself to the full-blood Veela, had not learned much of the ancient siren other than her name, who looked anything except elderly. Only her eyes, the same deep blue as Fleur, betrayed her age. An iridescent glint of wisdom, earned only through years of trial and error, resided there in Asteria’s eyes, sharp and perceptive of all they saw.

Fleur, approaching the beast once more, was met with an irritated snort. The part-Veela gritted her teeth in exasperation. She hurled herself at the dragon again, managing to reach his back despite the bucking and snarls of aversion. Clenching her teeth, she showed him the memory of Malfoy, of his threat and the danger he posed to the young, unhatched dragons. Shamin stopped his struggle, his eyes glazing has he received the memory, then as it was juxtaposed to the alternative with the full-blooded Veela.

He was allowed memories of the dragon she had tamed, how Fleur had watched the dance with a bone-chilling fear and awe at how fierce the Veela could be, but how gently she had tended the dragon’s wounds before she saw to her own. He saw the time Fleur had spent there as a child, learning her people’s dances, strengths and weaknesses, how she and other Veela daughters used to run through her grandmother’s protective forests, taunting one another with challenges to see who could climb the tallest tree, who could leap from the highest height and remain unscathed. How they used to roll through the underbrush as graceful and lithe as deer, without a care to scrapes or bruises, playfully hunting creatures to hone their tracking skills before any of them were even eight years old. How they adored hunting each other through the wood to see who was the better huntress and who could remain undetected.

All these memories were received by the Horntail, showing him the peace of the Veela world through reverie. Fleur’s brow was drenched with sweat by the time she’d finished showing him her recollections of her childhood. She slumped over his crest, panting, while the dragon slowly approached her grandmother. The Veela rose, her long hair running down her back in a white-blonde river. The two regarded each other in a respectful manner, unresponsive as Fleur climbed down from Shamin’s back. Despite the biting cold, she pulled off her jumper, radiating more heat than usual. She came to sit beside Hermione, resting her head on the other’s shoulder, still panting slightly.

“Well, at least I think I got through to him.” She sighed. Shamin snorted in her direction. Hermione chuckled, rolling her eyes and rested her head against the part-Veela’s.

“I believe he has come to an understanding,” Asteria said, her voice held an accent but her articulation was clear, standing with her back towards the dragon. Hermione sat up straighter, feeling like she had been caught doing something wrong. Fleur stifled a chuckle, meeting her grandmother’s gaze.

“Has he? Excellent. That was more exerting than taming him in the first place. Thank you, Grand-mère, for allowing him to stay.”

“It is far from an inconvenient arrangement. And a promise to see you more often, yes?” The full Veela replied as she approached the fire-nest slowly. Shamin watched closely, eyes ever weary. She had cast a charm on her hands so that the eggs wouldn’t burn her as she lifted one milky white egg up in her palm. She held one in each hand, and Apparated away, returning within a few seconds to collect two more. Fleur sighed, climbing up Shamin’s back again.

“Would you like to accompany me?” Fleur asked. Hermione bit her lip, remembering the first and only flight. Shamin was already beyond restless, as he was kept from his hatch, now completely absent. Fleur rethought her offer, quickly adjusting herself astride the dragon. “Perhaps that’s not a good idea… I shall return promptly.” She blew a kiss off her fingertips and Shamin leapt into flight, ascending quickly as Fleur set the course.

Hermione watched them go, soon becoming lost amongst the trees that kept them from her line of sight. She sighed heavily, holding Fleur’s jumper in her hands, still retaining the Veela’s warmth. A smile lifted her lips as she crushed the jumper to her chest.

Alone, Hermione returned to the castle, filling the group in on Fleur’s whereabouts. After an uneventful breakfast, a snowball fight ensued on the grounds, where Fred, George, and Peeves were solely to blame. Snow took flight from skilled hands, striking frostbitten flesh as people ran for cover. Hermione watched, bemused as she practiced her own magic, defending herself from the hurling ice. After several minutes, Ron joined her, his eyes shining but his posture nervous.

“So, ‘Mione, the Ball’s coming up, have you found anyone to go with yet?” he asked casually.

The brunette’s eyebrows furrowed. “I have, in fact. And you?”

He scratched the back of his neck nervously. “Well, not exactly… you were kind of my last resort…”

“Your last resort?!” Hermione shot to her feet, her eyes wide and her brow knit. “That’s what you think of me, a last resort? Well then, Ronald, you’ll be very surprised once you see who has my arm! I _dare_ you to speak, to mutter, to _whisper_ a single word of distaste. You’ll have two _very_ angry women to contend with.” She turned on her heel, her hair flying over her shoulder in the trademark flip of feminine annoyance.

“Two?” He called, confused.

“Oh, this is rich!” An arrogant voice yelled. “Someone asked _you_ to the Ball? Poor bloke, _must_ have been desperate, eh, Granger? Or maybe you threatened him into it. Much more likely, wouldn’t you agree?”

Hermione paused, turning her head a fraction of an inch over her shoulder. A flash of oily hair and green robes confirmed her suspicion and spiked her annoyance. Her hand reached for her wand as she turned to fully face the blonde male.

“And who are you going with, Malfoy? Some other dim-witted, brown-nosed father’s-little-darling? The brain’s a terrible thing to waste. How much of yours is put to use?” A spell was thrown at her, easily deflected by a swish of her wand. This reaction was uncharacteristic of the brunette, usually so strict with following rules, negating offensive spells _outside_ of class when someone wasn’t trying to kill her was unheard of.  “Today is not the day, Draco. Do yourself a favor and take my word.” Her voice had lowered unconsciously and drawled slightly.

“What are you going to do now that your Champion lovers aren’t around to protect you?” He sneered, wand still ready.

She narrowed her eyes. “I’m challenging you.” She turned her back to him. “Surly you have enough pride to decide against attacking a worthy opponent when their back is turned. If not, I have an arsenal of spells supplied just for that purpose.” She began to walk, every indication of tension and annoyance in her stride.

Malfoy grit his teeth. Even though this was the abhorred Mudblood, he couldn’t bring himself to strike at her back. That would be a larger embarrassment. So he did the next best thing and egged her on, his wand now turned at Ron, whose feeble attempts of standing up for her fell on deaf ears.

“So Weasley’s in trouble, eh? I can’t wait to see how that burns down. I wouldn’t expect you to have such a love life, Granger, but I did expect how hideous it would be! It’s a surprise for us all!”

She continued to walk, allowing her footprints to crunch into the snow with aggression. _Oh, yes, there will be surprises indeed. Much more trouble, however._ She thought as she marched to the Gryffindor tower. _And the largest of your worries will_ not _be me._

 

 

It was late in the evening when Fleur returned. Hermione, just settling in for bed with a book, was startled when the blonde waltzed into her room as though she lived there too. The Veela sank into the bed, yawning widely as she did, her hair slightly disheveled. Hermione, having rearranged her room to accommodate Fleur’s consistent presence, reached behind her bed where her desk was now situated, and laid her book on its surface, hardly past the introduction.

“‘I shall return promptly,’ you said.” Hermione jived playfully. The Veela at her side released an enormous breath, as if she had held it in since she departed.

“My apologies, mon amour. We nearly got lost, almost got back on course, then somehow ended up in England rather than France. I’m exhausted. An Invisibility Charm may be simple but casting it so much in a few hours is awful. Imagine the Muggle headlines if they saw Shamin flying around Big Ben?” Fleur chuckled. Hermione joined in, remembering a time far in the past; a dimly lit memory but one that she held so dear now, considering the current danger. How she had chastised Harry and Ron when she found out! The boys then had their first real taste of her fury, but since had heightened the magnitude of her wrath with their vast anthology of mishaps. The memory of redheaded boy brought back a flare of annoyance from earlier, which she shared with the Veela, not skipping out of any details, including those pertaining to Malfoy.

“He shall be surprised, indeed.” Fleur agreed. “A last resort!” She snorted in distaste.

Hermione rolled her eyes, snuggling closer to the blonde. “I don’t understand males. He’s liked me for ages, but I’m his ‘last resort.’”

Fleur sighed, tightening her arm around the brunette firmly. “And, my sweet, you’ll never have to understand them. But don’t worry. If anything happens, I’ll take care of it. I’d rather him be mad at me instead of breaking the friendship between you.”

“Enough of this, those possibilities can wait for the future; I want to hear about Shamin. How did he like your grandmother’s land?”

“Oh, he was enthralled once we _finally_ got there. Grand-mère already had a nest prepared, where he nearly crash-landed in order to get there, couldn’t be bothered with a gentle landing, of course. Then, what took me so long, Grand-mère was visited by several Veela sisters, most of which I haven’t seen in ages. So, we all settled in for chitchat before we went out for an old game we used to play. That’s why my arms are a little scratched up.” The Veela took off her coat and held out her arms, and sure enough, it looked as though she’d been wrestling with a rosebush.

“What is this so-called ‘game’ you speak of?” Hermione snapped, grabbing her wand from her desk and set to placing healing charms on the other’s skin. The first spell sent the Veela hissing and her arms recoiling as they burned from damn disinfectant charm. She cleared her throat and steeled herself, for if this was her punishment she’d better take it in stride.

“Well, when we were younger, we used to chase each other in the forest, hunting each other, trying to see who could conceal themselves better. Grand-mère still holds Championship title.” Hermione chuckled, replacing her wand when she was satisfied with the redemption of Fleur’s flawless skin.

“What did she say? About me, I mean…” Hermione asked the question quietly, still feeling a bit intimidated by the full Veela.

“She said you were adorable! Quiet, but given the circumstances, she’s sure she’ll love you to death once you have a chance to get to know one another more. My grandmother prefers to see a person for what they are before speaking. She saw quite a bit in you, I assure you.” The brunette beamed, though Fleur did not see, for her eyes had closed in fatigue.

“I suppose you’re ready for bed then?”

“Ah, yes, please, a long warm sleep sounds most desirable.”

“Aren’t you going to get dressed?” Hermione asked skeptically.

“Non.” Was her curt reply.

The Englishwoman sighed heavily, placing her hands on her hips as she sat up. “If you don’t, I’ll dress you.”

Fleur cracked one eye open. “Is that a challenge? If so, please proceed.” The Veela settled herself more conveniently, silently taunting Hermione. “And good luck.”  The brunette hesitated, but narrowed her eyes and squared her shoulders stubbornly. With deft fingers, she unbuttoned the blonde’s jeans, thanking the spirits that she wore a comfortable pair of insulating leggings beneath that could serve as pajamas. T-shirt in hand, she quickly removed the blonde’s blouse, gasping when she saw the small lacerations from her arms continued to Fleur’s chest, her breasts mercifully concealed by a bra.

“What did you _do?”_

“I told you, Veela game.”

“How did you get all these scratches here?” Hermione gently ran her fingertips over the soft skin of the Veela’s abdomen, reaching for her wand again.

“We played traditionally, naked, of course. I couldn't come back home in rags, could I?” The blonde winced as she felt the slight sting of the charm again.

“Any other places I should know about?” Hermione asked skeptically, refusing to allow herself to appraise Fleur’s body, instead locking on her eyes before she donned the T-shirt.

“No place deadly, I assure you. I can heal just fine on my own, dearest. Given another twenty minutes, most of them would have healed anyway.”

“I know.” Hermione replied, settling back into bed beside Fleur, blowing out her candles.

“So you like the idea of seeing me naked then?”

“Go to sleep, Fleur.” The brunette’s face burned, but she was thankful Fleur couldn’t see. The bed shook gently as the Veela chuckled, but remained silent as she moved to hold Hermione tightly, whispering nightly wishes to her in French. The brunette, despite her embarrassment, snuggled in closer to the Veela’s warmth, reveling in the pleasure brought from the tight embrace. She could feel Fleur’s every breath, how so many muscles moved with the seemingly small action. Kisses slowly rained down on her body, just as soft as the snow had fallen the previous night. Hermione allowed the now familiar patterns and rhythms of Fleur’s body lull her to sleep, as it did nearly every night now, and as she found herself wanting to every night thereafter. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, in text citation, but just to be safe, the Tao Te Ching is a book of Chinese philosophy. It's full of paradoxes that somehow makes sense, and offers a new, deeper perspective into life. I found it therapeutic myself, and I highly recommend it.


	10. Clear and Present Danger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright guys! Chapter ten is rather long, and I highly advise curling up with a nice cup of warm cocoa or whatever else meets your fancy. I must admit, I bash Ron a bit here, as well as knock Draco around as well. Just once though. This is the chapter of the Yule Ball, and just in time for Valentine's Day! I'm not really big into fashion, so if I did something wrong with a color scheme, I do apologize. I tried to do what I can for the dresses, and hopefully it won't disappoint. For those of you who, like me, have spent the last several days cooped up inside because of the snowstorm along the Eastern coast of the US, I hope no one sustained any damages/injury to property or person and had fun in the snow.  
> Thank you, to everyone who's left a comment or kudos, I really appreciate them! I've been under the weather for a few days, so I'm apologizing now for any incorrect grammar. Head colds are the worst and mistakes can easily pass my eye. Also, there's more crude humor at the end, as well as some questionable language. Just a bit, but whatever. All right, enough babbling, hope you all enjoy!  
> Much love,  
> RC

The Yule Ball was soon upon them, and with it came the stresses of readying themselves for the event. Hermione had not breathed a word to Ron of her date since their last parting word several days earlier, much to his dismay and wasted effort.

Hermione sat in her room, combing through her long, curly hair, trying to think of something to do with it. Ginny, looking rather quite stunning in a light blue dress that contrasted beautifully with her red hair, huffed beside her, brushing another part of dark hair with another brush.

“Why must you have so much hair?” She whined. “I don’t know what to do with it all!”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Please. Just make me look pretty for Fleur.”

The redhead snorted. “You know, she already finds you gorgeous. Now, what kind of make-up do you want?”

Across campus, the Veela sat before her dressing table, thin curlers rolled into her long hair as it was held in place at the crown of her head by a clip adorned with garnet. Her face was coated in a mask of green mud and aloe, one hand busily painting her toe and fingernails in dark red polish. When she had finished every nail, save for those of her left hand, she beckoned her sister near, who took her hand and finished the task slowly and deliberately as Fleur blew on the wet polish. The topcoat was applied, blown dry, and the mud was very carefully washed from her skin. She gently pulled the curlers from her hair, allowing her locks to fall in loose ringlets from their perch at the clip.

Each and every task was completed in silence and in a leisurely, nearly languid manner, taking deliberate time to apply each stroke of mascara, eye shadow, and liner. When her eyes were even more striking with their synthetic shadows of light blues and soft whites, she ran her hand over her flawless cheek. Her skin was porcelain, made softer by the mask, and now glowed with vitality. A smile lifted her lips. Hermione would be surprised with her appearance. She already knew the brunette found her to be stunningly beautiful, but how much would a little effort do?

Gabrielle’s hands came around her neck, clasping a silver necklace behind Fleur’s hair. Small diamonds sparkled beside a larger, vibrant sapphire just below the space between her collarbones. There was no hanging pendant for this piece, just a bit of sterling silver shaped into a wide ‘V’ before the chain held it in place. The diamonds were held in place by thin vines of silver; the single sapphire was cut into an oval shape and held by the ends of four silver strands. Fleur smiled again as she looked at her grandmother’s heirloom in the mirror, then up at her sister, who returned the grin.

“I think you’re ready.” Gabrielle said in French, pulling the older Veela to her feet to appraise the dress her sister had chosen. It was rather simple, but Fleur’s exceptional Veela beauty made up for what the dress lacked. The deep blue silk clung to her curves; the sweetheart neckline accented her shoulders and the cut in fabric at her right thigh allowed her to move fairly freely, as the skirt was nearly knee-length. Her wand was placed in its new holster on her thigh, hidden beneath the skirt but still easily accessible.

Fleur took a deep breath, appraising herself in the mirror a final time. “I hope everything will proceed smoothly. Could you hand me my shoes, Gabrielle?” The younger witch handed the small heeled shoes to her sister, who fought a short battle with the straps to make them fit properly. For several minutes, she fidgeted with a crimson silk sash, trying to decide where the knot would look best around her waist. She settled for her left side, tightening it so that it would not fall from her body. It was the same color as Hermione’s dress, the Gryffindor had made sure of that after insisting on what little color coordinating they could do since they both were wearing dresses.

“You’ll be late if you don’t go. Madame will have your head.” Fleur nodded, and, grabbing her coat, thanked Gabrielle for her assistance and hurried to the castle.

Once inside, the Veela waited impatiently at the foot of the staircase that led to the Gryffindor Tower. She fidgeted with her dress, her hands, her jewelry, praying that Hermione would appear so the looks she was receiving would shift from lust to shock.

The Gryffindor, peeking around a corner, saw Fleur waiting, and her appearance was astounding. Hermione’s breath caught in her throat as she allowed her eyes to feast upon the Veela’s beauty, how she saw that her skin glowed with blush, how her breaths seemed shallow and eager beneath the close-fitting blue silk. She heeded no appraisal nor criticism from any of the converging students, instead took keen interest in straightening her dress, her hair, anything that her imagination put off center in its anxiety. Hermione couldn’t help but take pride in knowing that the Veela waited for _her_ and her alone; that _she_ was the source sending her heart into a frenzied panic, the blush on her cheeks no longer merely powder; that it was _she_ that those gorgeous ever-shifting eyes longed to see, those elegant, slightly shaking hands wished to hold _her_ own, those delicate feet yearned to dance with _her._ The pride swelled in her chest so, she could no longer hold the beautiful creature in anxious torment any longer, and took the first step down the staircase.

“Mon Dieu…”

The Veela’s eyes widened and her jaw went slightly slack as she took in the approaching figure. She allowed her eyes to travel the length of Aphrodite’s jealously, the striking crimson dress catching her attention first. It held her body in the most alluring fashion, her curves accented and praised. The skirt was layered, falling slightly past her knees. A tight bodice hugged her torso, a surplice neckline revealed her collarbones, elegantly situated upon her chest, which was conservatively and tastefully covered. The goddess drifted down the stairs, clicks emitting from her heels with each step.

Fleur forced her eyes to continue their expedition, seeing how gracefully her hair had been tied back into an elegant knot that left her locks, though slightly tamed, fall down her back in a cascade of natural curls held with a thin blue ribbon. She’d even taken the time to paint her own nails, the same shade as Fleur’s dress and the ribbon in her hair. Her face was almost completely clear of make-up, only a bit of shadow graced her eyes and gloss made her lips shine. Hermione smiled as she continued her aguishly slow descent, beaming as she studied the Veela’s wide, awestruck eyes. Finally arriving at the last step, Hermione took Fleur’s hand in her own, and, with her height assisted, placed her lips at the Veela’s ear.

“You look beautiful.” She breathed, electing a shiver from the blonde. Hermione smiled wider with a chuckle and kissed Fleur’s pale cheek in greeting, surrendering to her natural height with a final step down. Even though she wore heels, she still stood just below the Veela’s chin.

Fleur recovered slightly, and shook her head in defiance. “You are absolutely stunning, the jealousy of the goddesses…” she trailed off, kissing the girl’s temple gently.

 Hermione giggled softly, but then became acutely aware of the multitudes of eyes watching them with a burning intensity. Harry was one of them, though his expression bore comfort and support to them with a kind smile despite his own dreaded attendance there.

Fleur followed Hermione’s frightened gaze, and lifted her chin proudly. With the tip of her index finger, she turned Hermione’s face to her and locked eyes with her.

“You don’t have to go out there, you know.” The Gryffindor’s back went rigid as she straightened her spine purposefully. The Veela didn’t need a reply, so she linked their arms together and faced the hordes of gathering gawking students. They looked impassive, both astoundingly beautiful despite lack of emotion, challenging anyone to object to their interlocked arms.

“What are you waiting for? An invitation? Get in your positions!” The horde dispersed as McGonagall shouted over the students, pushing through them to get to the Champions. Her gaze fell on the two females, standing rigid and unyielding with narrowed eyes. She looked them over, at first with curiosity, then with an approving expression that held the conviction of a long-perceived awareness just confirmed.

“Fleur, Hermione.” She nodded to each respectfully. “You both look most handsome this evening. Go on and get in line. The procession will start shortly.” She patted Hermione’s shoulder, and with a quick grin, went back to barking orders at students. The Gryffindor looked incredibly relieved, just as Fleur looked even more energized. Eagerly, she pulled Hermione by the arm and took their place at the head of the line before the great doors to the Hall. Harry threw another, wider, reassuring smile her way as they passed.

A deep blush flushed Hermione’s cheeks, her heart fluttered in her chest. They wouldn’t have to hide anymore. They wouldn’t have to drop each other’s hands when they neared castle or carriage.

“This is it, mon amour. Deep breath…” The doors opened and light spilled out before them. The Great Hall was decorated with ice and frost, garlands of holly and mistletoe lining the black, star-spotted ceiling, elegantly hanging from the walls. The House tables were no longer present; instead, several hundred small circular tables boasted lamplights and silver tablecloths. With a last breath, Fleur lifted her left foot and took the first step into the Hall, pulling Hermione into action beside her.

Eyes feasted upon them, watching every movement as they marched down the long carpet that has been rolled out down the middle of the Hall and lead to the Head Table, where the staff stood waiting for the Champions. Hermione could feel the gazes boring into her, heeding little or no attention to the other three couples behind them. Several times, she’d had to steal glances from the Veela at her side to reassure herself. Turning her eyes back to the crowd at her left, she found Malfoy’s face among them, taken aback and shocked at the two. She smiled broadly, her pride burning every insecurity away. Not even Draco had a comment to throw at her, and for that, she was incredibly smug. She tightened her arm about Fleur’s and walked with a newfound confidence in her step, and soon her walk of pride ended as they took their seats, and began the feast. Their plates were empty before them, but were set with every utensil arranged perfectly on either side of the platters along with a menu.

Fleur, being the courteous gentlewoman she was, pulled Hermione’s chair out for her, pushed it back in, and only after did she take her own seat. The Gryffindor was beaming at her side, and tentatively reached for her hand. Fleur, without hesitation, lifted her hand and placed a soft kiss to her palm.

“The hard part is over, dear. The rest of the night is ours to do with as we please. I won’t let anything come in the way of that.” Fleur whispered softly.

Hermione sighed again, pleased with the evening thus far. She took another glance around, seeing how exactly they were to dine. There wasn’t a buffet, or waiters.

“Pork chops!” She turned to see the Headmaster of Hogwarts commanding his plate. Sure enough, pork chops appeared, still steaming from the oven. A smile spread over her lips as she shook her head. Fleur gave her a questioning look as Hermione followed her headmaster and ordered, “Fillet mignon!” And it was filled as she spoke. She shook her head again, still smiling.

“Magic never ceases to amaze me,” she chuckled.

Fleur smiled warmly and soon joined the feast with a bowl of bouillabaisse and a generous slice of French bread. After a few moments of urging Hermione to expand her pallet, she was soon sharing her meal with the girl at her side, pleased that she enjoyed her native cuisine.

“So zis is ze girl you ‘ave been sneaking through ze carriage wiz?” Madame spoke from Fleur’s left side, smiling kindly.

The Veela rose sharply to her feet blushing and said something in French that sounded apologetic. It was met with a large chuckle and a disregarding gesture as Maxime instructed her to sit again. “You must introduce us formally, Fleur.”

“Madame, this is Hermione, my intended mate. Hermione, this is my Headmistress, Madame Maxime.”

Hermione smiled, nodding her head respectfully. “It is a true pleasure to formally speak to you, Madame.” She spoke in clear French, surprising both Fleur and Maxime.

“The Veela mothers made a good choice, my dear.” She whispered in Fleur’s ear. “I highly approve of your after-hours visitation.”

The Veela blushed darkly, and Maxime excused herself to continue her meal.

Hermione continued to eat, looking rather smug with herself.

“Where did that come from?” Fleur inquired, sipping at her spoonful.

“I thought I should study French a bit. I figured it would come in handy come time to meet your parents or if Maxime caught me sneaking about the carriage.”

“And how much do you know?”

“Not much. Enough to find my way, should I get lost, introduce myself, thank someone, and how to find a bathroom.”

Fleur chuckled, incredibly pleased. “I must say, I’m impressed. I most definitely did not think you could surprise me anymore.”

Hermione sighed heavily with a smile. “I have a lot of surprises, dearest.”

The Veela lifted her spoon to her lips again in quiet contemplation. She was increasingly aware of the multitudes of eyes studying her over their plates, whispering behind napkins. She shrugged off their scrutiny and refused it allowance to dampen the evening.

Hermione spared a glance to Harry, who seemed to be looking longingly in Cedric’s direction. Through the years of friendship, Harry seemed to feel her eyes urging him to return her gaze as he turned to face her. She smiled warmly at him in sympathy and compassion. He glanced to Fleur, and a look of remembrance flickered across his features, followed fast by a brief glitter of hope as his eyes turned once more back to dark haired girl at Cedric’s right side. Hermione continued her scan of faces, trying desperately to locate Ron, where he sat, she was sure, stewing in distaste and loathing. Her eyes roved around again, and caught sight of Percy Weasley amongst the dinner guests and wondered vaguely why he was there.  

The Headmaster’s voice broke her concentration as he stood and asked everyone to stand as well, ending the dinner. As they did, the tables stacked themselves neatly against the walls of the Hall, save for a few dinner tables and several circular tables towards the back. Another rectangular table held a large bowl of punch and stacks of small crystal goblets, another beside it held a number of snack items, if the dinner hadn’t filled the students enough. The red throw the Champions had walked down rolled itself up, tucking between two stacked tables. The whole of the student body made a circle, and the formal, classical music began to play. Fleur took Hermione’s hand, and led her onto the dance floor.

The brunette looked into the Veela’s eyes, with a mix of fear and excitement. The two began to dance, now oblivious to the eyes that stared, that loathed, that watered with defeat and narrowed with distain. Fleur led them, twirling Hermione round, even lifting her into the air a few times. The Gryffindor laughed and tried to take the lead, nearly stumbling over herself as the tempo outmatched her skill. Fleur slowed so that she could follow Hermione, the brunette’s left hand drifted to the Veela’s waist, her right clasped Fleur’s free hand. Hermione twirled the blonde, rising to her tiptoes to allow the taller woman to turn while holding her hand. By now, the other Champions had joined them, as well as a few other couples, but they were too engrossed in one another to care very much about their space being infiltrated.

As the formal, classical song ended, Fleur stepped back and curtseyed modestly to Hermione, who, in turn, rolled her eyes and took the blonde back in her arms, laughing. Another slower song began, not quite so classical, Fleur leading once more, brought their bodies closer than the six inch space that was preached and broken even by some of the professors who now danced. The blonde’s arms were wrapped around Hermione’s waist snuggly, and Hermione’s hands were clasped together behind the Veela’s neck as they swayed gently to the music.

Hermione brought her face to Fleur’s neck, gently pressing a kiss there. When she pulled back, her eyes were pained, making the blonde eyebrows furrow.

“Is everything alright?” Fleur asked, searching to retrieve the brunette’s downcast eyes.

“Yeah, it’s perfect; I’m just smiling so much my cheeks hurt.” Hermione answered, chuckling at herself. Fleur rolled her eyes, and kissed the other’s aching cheek gently.

“Thank you.”

Hermione pulled back in question. “For what?”

Fleur gestured with her hand. “This night,” Then she nodded at Hermione. “The privilege of dancing with you, of sharing these memories with you; this one I shall always remember.” Hermione met her eyes, worrying her lip between her teeth.

“In that case, the pleasure’s all mine. I’m sure there are loads of people wishing me dead at this moment because I’m with you and they’re not.”

“A little prideful, are you?” Fleur jived playfully.

“I am!” She admitted unashamed. “I’m dancing with a Delacour, of course I’m proud. Who ever thought little Granger would ever fall to such luck?” The two chuckled and the current song presently ended. The couple parted and looked towards the source of a cacophony of noise as the Great Hall’s doors opened and banged closed again.

A stage was transfigured from a few tables, where the Weird Sisters introduced themselves and filled the Hall with loud, roaring music, met with equal volumes of approval. Hermione, flashing a smile at the blonde, dragged her into the throngs of people where dancing morphed into a collection of heat and friction that shouldn’t be synonymous with dance. After a few long minutes of enduring the heat, Fleur pulled herself from the masses, Hermione following her.

“I’m going to go grab some punch!” Fleur yelled over the music.

“I’ll go find Harry and Ron!” Hermione yelled back, laughing so hard her stomach hurt. She found Harry and Ron at a nearly empty table towards the back, where she could hear her ears ringing and her chest lost the pulsating thrum the bass produced. She fell into a chair beside Ron where she fanned herself.

“Fleur’s going to get some punch, would either of you care to join us?” She managed after catching her breath.

Ron slumped into his chair, beady eyes shifting round as he tapped his foot impatiently.

“I can’t believe you’re doing this Hermione.” He said after a moment.

“Doing what?” She asked innocently, squaring him in her gaze.

“You, Fleur, you’re consulting with the enemy against Harry!” His foot stopped tapping as his voice rose.

“ _Against_ Harry? She’s been _helping_ him, Ron! She hasn’t given him anything to allow him to cheat in the Tournament, but sharing study habits and findings. And even so―”

“It doesn’t matter, Hermione!” He shouted, rising to his feet, an action Hermione copied with equal anger. “You’re with a _girl!_ A female! A Veela! She’s just leading you on because that’s _what they do!_ She can’t love you like I can!”

“Don’t _ever_ say another word of Fleur in that manner! How could you love me? How could you possibly? You stood by and considered me a last resort while she took her chance! I don’t expect you to understand, but I do expect you to respect my choices and the threads of fate that make her mine!” Hermione screeched, her voice sharp and dangerous. She turned to leave, but a final sentence fell from Ron’s cavernous mouth made her turn again.

“I’m just trying to protect you! She’s probably just using you to have a good fuck an―” Her hand clenched into a fist. Her arm, with untapped strength and prowess shot forward, striking him beneath the chin so hard she heard his teeth click. He staggered backwards and fell into a chair, holding his jaw in pain where a bruise was already blossoming, his eyes wide with disbelief. A stiff, pointed index finger jabbed the air at him where he sat in shock.

“Protecting me so she won’t fuck me and leave? So I won’t be a page in her little black book?” She growled in a soft, dangerous voice. “You know nothing of her, of us, of the bloody Veela! You’re trying to hold me back so that you can dream your fantasy of me. So you can continue drooling over her shamelessly. So you can still sit and wallow and never approach me with your interest. She didn’t wait, and I’m glad she didn’t. Contact me when you can speak sensibly again. But don’t ever, _ever_ , think that you could have me.” She turned on her heel, and saw that Fleur was just approaching, the smile on her face faltering as she took in Hermione’s angry welling tears.

“What happened, Hermione?” She asked upon arriving, setting the cups of punch on the table and taking the brunette’s face in her hands gently.

“Let’s just go, I don’t want to be in here any―”

“Well. Looks like the Mudbloods have found love after all.” Fleur’s eyes locked on a space above Hermione’s shoulder and narrowed. “I _knew_ it!”

Hermione stepped forward and was met with Fleur’s arm preventing escape. The Veela’s chin lifted and she placed herself between Malfoy and Hermione protectively.

“I see I was right. You have yet to learn to recognize danger when it is clear and present.” Fleur spoke evenly, lowly, but so focused was her tone it carried through the distance between them and was received with utmost clarity.

Malfoy looked around himself mockingly. “Danger, where?”

“Tonight is not the night, Draco. If you wish to challenge me, do so tomorrow, for I have better things to take care of tonight.”

“Oh, like pleasing your Mudblood whore?” Again, the Veela moved with fluid grace and caught the boy by the throat. Her fingers clenched his trachea tightly, her eyes locking with his. His hands first tried to slap at the Veela’s face, but quickly depleted his blood of oxygen, forcing him to cease the attempted assault as his hands feebly clenched those at his throat.

“How many times must we discuss this? You will leave Hermione alone, or you will be answering to me and the consequences will be most severe. You will learn to be respectful of her if you wish for this year and those following to pass smoothly, am I clear?” A noise of protest sounded from his throat where a small space allowed air to pass through. Upon hearing the strangled objection, Fleur tightened her hold. So controlled was her grip that his throat was on the brink of collapse but air was still allowed a small passage. “A simple nod will do. Words are not needed.” The stubborn boy, beginning to turn purple, nodded his understanding, and was released, promptly falling to the floor where precious air was taken in gulps.

The Veela turned and strode out of the Hall with her back straight. Following instinct, she went outside into the frigid air and listened closely to the betraying sounds of sniffles. She found Hermione in the middle of a hedge maze, where she knelt before an elegant fountain carved from ice. Moonlight twinkled along the curves and contours of the ice stag; his antlers glittered with a fairytale majesty preserved in the frozen element. Fleur went to her knees beside the Gryffindor, taking her into her arms warmly. She kissed her hair gently, a small voice in her head worried that an administrator would hear of the display, find them and send her to prison for assault on a minor, but a louder voice reasoned that she was a Delacour, thus any and all problems would be settled mannerly and without serious repercussions. She knew it was unfair, but she’d given the boy more than fair warning, and the Veela tended to be unforgiving of a second trespass.

Fleur held the younger witch tightly in her arms, her shoulder stifling her cries. Hermione shook with rage and her hand had begun to swell slightly. She quietly comforted the brunette, rubbing circles against her back with one hand while the other held one of Hermione’s hands tightly.

Finally, Hermione’s cries slowed, and soon apologies were spilling from her lips, for everything from ruining the Veela’s dress to the indecency displayed by Hogwarts. Fleur hushed her quietly, rocking her gently.

“It’s much too cold out here, dearest. Please, let’s go inside and sit by a fire.”

“The night is ruined, Fleur, just head on back to the carriage.” Hermione said in a defeated voice, irritably wiping her face, trying to remove the Veela’s arms from about her shoulders.

“Do not give me that order, ma belle. I have another idea. Take me to the astronomy tower. You’ve been promising…” She whispered. “Let me make this night better for you.” Her lips descended upon Hermione’s bare shoulder, gently kissing the warm skin there. The Gryffindor felt her body tense instantly, but relax slowly, having never felt Fleur kiss her in such a way. The Veela’s teeth gently nipped at her skin, her lips kissed away any pain that had been brought. The cold air sought out the warmth Fleur’s mouth left behind, making Hermione shiver. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head as they closed, her lips parted in disbelief and pleasure. Breathing became a labor, and her starving lungs seemed to need more air than could be taken in.

Hermione wound her fingers though the Veela’s hair, holding her close to her chest, a small whimper begging her to continue. Fleur pulled away reluctantly, chuckling softly as she took in the brunette’s expression.

“See? I can resurrect the night if you let me. Let us go to the tower. Your ceiling simply isn’t the same as the open air.”

Hermione groaned as Fleur pulled her up from the ground. The two made their way through the castle and up staircases, shushing each other, carrying their shoes in one hand and the hems of their dresses in the other, desperate to remain unseen and unheard. On the way, Hermione stopped by her room and grabbed a thick duvet, knowing that at elevated heights in the middle of December the atmosphere would be most unwelcoming.

Entering a classroom, poorly safeguarded with a weak spell, they easily ducked through to the other side where a long, sturdy balcony had been built outside of the structure. When they reached the ledge of the terrace and the campus of Hogwarts stretched out beneath them, the Veela dropped her shoes and hurried to see the miles of forest surrounding the school. It was an unusually clear night, and both the stars and moon helped Hermione as she watched with joy, joining her studies.

“How do you like it?” Hermione asked softly.

“I love it!” Fleur responded enthusiastically. “And the stars…” The blonde turned, a wide smile on her lips. “You know, when I learned Beauxbaton’s would be coming here for the year, I was anything but excited. I hated the idea, actually. I had always heard it was cloudy, rainy, depressing, nothing like France. But I was still hopeful, eager to learn something new. England lived up to my expectations; the first morning was cold, damp, the sun seemed reluctant to shine.” She paused, sighing. “But now, I find I enjoy Scotland. Its sun is never taken for granted. Its dismal beauty is rather appealing after one takes a deeper look.” Fleur sighed, looking out over the forests.

Hermione sat down and leaned back against a wall of the tower, looking out at the masses of constellations the vast field of black offered her. Fleur joined her, settling down at her side, wrapping an arm about the brunette against the cold as they spread the blanket over themselves.

“Have you a passion for astronomy, Hermione?” The Veela inquired quietly. “More than just watching stars die on your ceiling, I mean.”

The brunette smiled and chuckled. “I’ve read about constellations, but I’m not very good at finding them.”

“Ah, something I may prevail over you in, at last! You see those three bright stars, just above the rail, near the middle?” Hermione nodded, following Fleur’s point. “That is Orion’s belt, I’m sure you’ve read about him in mythology. Find his belt, and you can find the Big Dipper, and from there, Polaris, the North Star. And then, if you find…” She continued on and on, her index finger tracing the sky as she led Hermione’s eyes from star to star and planet to planet, naming the brightest and the biggest, occasionally saying over and over how she wished she had a telescope, but where they were hidden in the classroom remained a mystery.

Hermione’s gaze slowly traveled from the sky, to the Veela’s face, studying her in the rare bath of starlight. Her full smile never faltered, even as she talked, her eyes reflected the brightest stars, and her pale skin rivaled the moon in beauty. The strong jaw, proud chin, and the soft, gentle curve of her cheek seemed even more beautiful in the illuminating moonlight. Fleur caught her staring, smiling even wider.

“Find something more interesting than the sky?”

“You.” Hermione answered, her pupils had dilated, her lips parted slightly. Her heart pounded in her chest as the Veela looked bashfully away, taking her lip between her teeth for a moment before meeting Hermione’s eyes again. The brunette boldly positioned herself between the Veela’s legs, never breaking eye contact. Fleur’s breath quickened as her eyes grew wide, her chest rising and falling unevenly from Hermione’s sudden proximity. Hermione’s eyes smoldered, entrancing the Veela as a cobra charms its prey. She was rendered motionless, defenseless to the other witch’s wishes.

Every heartbeat resonated throughout Fleur’s body. She could feel every artery contract, forcing frozen blood through her veins. The temperature skyrocketed as the two breathed into the same space, then was forced even hotter when Hermione allowed her lips to fall upon the Veela’s, pressing first her mouth, then her whole body against the blonde.

Fleur’s breasts rose with a surprised intake of breath. Their lips froze at first contact, but warmed quickly, burning though butterflies and shock. Fleur’s heart stuttered in her chest, her hands moved by their own accord to cup Hermione’s face gently, her lips brushing over the brunette’s in a soft caress.

Hermione answered in kind, her senses reporting the blonde’s every action. How soft and supple her lips were, how gently her cheek was held, the slight tickle as Fleur’s nose skimmed over her skin as she tilted her head to one side, how their lips fit together, the light scent of Fleur’s perfume, the unauthorized longing of her hands to roam over the blonde’s body, how her lungs burned as they were denied oxygen, instead being given this sublime nourishment that was _Fleur_.

Neither had ever experienced such a surge of emotion and heat, such a mounting need coursing through veins. They crashed together, holding on to one another as if they were the only anchors to remain firmly planted as their world spun away from their grasp, and was replaced by a deeper, warmer embrace of mouths and lips. Hermione was bold, claiming Fleur as hers, and hers alone. And how happily did the Veela comply, sighing her sharp gasp against the brunette’s supple lips. Hermione took the moment to nibble gently on the blonde’s lower lip, pulling her closer against her body in a tight hold, unwilling to let her go even as her lungs began to protest.

Hermione reluctantly pulled away, panting for air. The Veela did the same, but was the first to speak. “Have you any idea what you just did?” she asked softly. Hermione nodded.

“I accepted.” She took Fleur’s hand in hers, running her thumb over the blonde’s knuckles and studied the other witch closely. Her lips were swollen and glossy, a blush high on her cheeks, her breathing still slightly uneven. “It wasn’t an accident.” The Veela sighed heavily, taking Hermione in her arms tightly. Her cheek was pressed into the brunette’s hair, her chest brushing Hermione’s cheek with every breath.

“I didn’t fear it was. That was…” Fleur let the sentence fall, blushing. “May… may I kiss you again?”

Hermione rolled her eyes, smiling back. “You don’t have to ask, you know.” Fleur chuckled softly, again cupping Hermione’s cheek ever so gingerly in her palm, claiming the brunette’s lips as hers. A shiver rolled though her body, the muscles in her arms tightened around Hermione’s body, seemingly so small against her chest. The Veela’s blood sang in her veins, coursing through her body, reminding her pounding heart that the partnership had truly begun now.

For long, immeasurable moments, they sat there, enveloped in each other’s arms. Hermione tucked her face beneath Fleur’s chin, pressing gentle kisses to her neck, tasting the flesh there. Fleur sighed happily, reluctantly pulling Hermione away as the brunette began to shiver when the wind picked up.

“I think we’d better get to bed, ma belle. Dawn must be approaching soon.” She gently nuzzled Hermione’s nose with her own. She strained to stand, pulling the Gryffindor with her. They held hands as they descended from their haven, much slower than when they’d climbed in their haste to arrive. At the Gryffindor portrait, Fleur kissed Hermione’s hand gently, thanking her for the evening. Hermione returned the gesture with the same gentle, warm embrace of lips. She smiled sadly when the blonde pulled away and rocked back from where she’d stood on her toes.

“Won’t you stay tonight?” Hermione whispered, lest she wake the sleeping portrait, looking up in question. Fleur’s thumb stroked the other’s lip where it was caught between her teeth in hope.

The Veela sighed. “Why don’t we go to the carriage?” Hermione considered briefly but nodded in affirmation. Once again, they stole through campus and through the powder-blue carriage; entering Fleur’s quarters shivering with cold.

As soon as the door had closed behind them, her lips attacked Fleur’s, surprising the Veela, again with fervor, taking the blonde’s lower lip into her mouth where it was teased by her tongue. The Veela, rearing within Fleur, forced Hermione to the bed and pinned the brunette under her. Her teeth teased her neck and shoulders, her chest pressed hard against the Gryffindor’s sporadic breaths. Their limbs tingled with ultra-sensitive awareness, their blood rushing through their bodies with primal instincts all but buried inside their genetic structure.

Hermione’s hands claimed Fleur’s back, shoulders and hair, scratching what little skin was exposed as she arched into the blonde. Fleur, tapping into an enormous vat of control, forced herself away from Hermione, nearly leaping across the room to create distance. Hermione’s body was left cold from the absence of Fleur’s heat over her, and shivered as she sat up, studying the Veela closely as she panted heavily with her hand pressed to her chest.

“Did I do something wrong…?” Hermione asked after a few minutes. Fleur shook her head rapidly, both answering her and attempting to clear her thoughts.

“I just… I think we should wait before taking this any further.” She stated simply. “I’m certainly not saying I don’t want you, but this should be slow. Gentle.” She sighed heavily.

“Should I go back to the castle?”

“I’d rather you didn’t, but if that’s what you wish, by all means, go. I don’t want to rush our relationship. I know we’ve slept together, but we haven’t…”

“Fucked?” Hermione offered bluntly, her head lolled to the side and her eyebrows raised in question.

Fleur blushed darkly, both surprised and relieved as the curse fell from Hermione’s lips. “For lack of a better word, yes. Besides that, you’re only fifteen, you could change your mind…”

The brunette rose and strode to the Veela, standing on her tiptoes as she took Fleur’s cheeks gently in her hands and kissing her briefly. Hermione pulled away but rested her forehead on Fleur’s chin as she sank to stand flat-footed.

“Just so we’re clear, I don’t want sex. I just want the rough, juvenile ‘sneak off and make-out’ experience I’ve never had.” Hermione nuzzled her nose against the blonde’s jaw gently “In any case, I’ll be sixteen next year, and that’s the age of consent. And when we decide we’re ready, we’ll be sure.” Fleur’s body relaxed and released a large breath.

“I can give you that, but we’re not savages. We both need to wash up and prepare for bed.” Hermione groaned inwardly, but agreed wholeheartedly. The two dressed into nightwear, Hermione’s clothes becoming more abundant in the carriage by the week, and settled in for bed, the brunette nuzzled firmly against the Veela’s chest.

Fleur, without warning, threw her body over Hermione’s pressing their lips together roughly. The Gryffindor gasped in surprise, feeling her blood rush to her chest and head. Her thoughts became muddled as Fleur licked her lips, another gasp allowed her entrance. The Veela’s tongue sought out her own, but for a long moment, Hermione didn’t know how to respond, as she had never kissed like this before. Instinct took over, and her body found its own ways of achieving what it craved. Her hands pulled the blonde closer to her chest, her lips allowed the Veela full passage, and her tongue responded deliciously to the other’s, a new, powerful, throbbing sensation filling her thoughts, actions and body.

They continued exploring this new sensation into the wee hours of the night until their passion slowly subsided, their kisses dimming into gentle pecks and slow movements. Fleur, arms exhausted from holding herself up for so long, allowed her body to sink beside Hermione, again taking her into her arms tightly as they said their good night’s to one another. Their minds were exhausted as well as their bodies, though they were satisfied with the release of tension this almost innocent activity had provided them with.

But Fleur, in a sleep-addled state, had a question slip from her mouth before she could muster the strength to process its necessity.

“Hermione…” She whispered groggily. A ‘mmmhm” muffled by her own chest was her reply. “When you said you didn’t want sex, did you mean tonight or at all?”

The brunette lifted her head tiredly and looked at Fleur in the dim light with an incredulous expression. Like Fleur, her brain was sleep-deprived to the state of being disconnected from conscious, manners, or even dignity, so her answering statement received just as much processing as Fleur’s question had.

“I do want to fuck you someday.” 


	11. Procrastination

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are again! Sorry for that little drop off from the previous chapter, I know it was a bit sudden, but there was a reason for it, other than to drive you crazy. However, you will NOT see Hermione's 'someday' in Dusk. Sorry to destroy any expectations. BUT, you will in the sequel. There will be several tasteful 'somedays.' I promise. Anyway, there's not much else to note here, just wanted to get that out of the way. And, if anyone has any little headcannons they want to see, please shoot me a suggestion. I'm trying to learn how to write cute little one-chaptered fics, and so far, I only have one in the works. And then there's this monster, and its sequel, and its sequel... So. Next chapter. A big thank-you to everyone who's stopped by, left a comment, kudo, or bookmark, I really appreciate them! Hope you guys like this one!  
> Much love,  
> RC

Several days later, time slowed to a near stand-still as classes dragged on. The Veela found herself staring out the window into the dark, dismal clouds that never left the spires of Hogwarts, her professor’s voice droning her to sleep. She wondered idly how Hermione was faring, since she had two Champions to look out for and hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in weeks. She chuckled ruefully to herself as a half-imagined memory surfaced, how it seemed like a dream now. Had it been a dream? Hermione’s kiss of acceptance surly hadn’t been, but what about that conversation they’d had so late into the night? Certainly that had been a dream. Hermione wasn’t the kind of person to go around throwing curses such as those to the wind carelessly, and certainly she understood the importance and significance completing the seal posed. Her thoughts flickered to the punch they’d nicked when they’d returned from the Astronomy Tower, and for a moment remembered the slight burn of the drink and the glee she’d seen on the Weasley twins’ faces. Could that have been the reason behind that dream-like memory? Could that have turned the lioness’s thoughts in such a direction, or her own for that matter?

A doleful, but merciful tintinnabulation sounded through the castle, and within minutes, the classroom was emptied, masses of bodies now packed into the hallways. Fleur took her time in writing down her homework and replacing her things, stretching lazily as she joined the masses, banishing her earlier thoughts.

The Veela made her way into the library and there, found Hermione, Ron, and Harry crowded around one another, heads down buried in their respective books. As she neared, she could hear Hermione chastising Harry about waiting for so long to begin searching for a spell, but though her tone was light and teasing, well aware that the wizard still had several weeks before he would really begin to worry. Harry countered with a retort about their mountains of homework from the professors having no mercy even for the Champions.

“May I join you?” Fleur asked tentatively, nodding to an empty chair. Ron began to speak, but after a warning glance from the other two Gryffindors, remained silent. The redheaded boy had been able to speak articulately to the Veela, due to Hermione’s acceptance almost the whole of the student body had become immune to the thrall, but he was still very unhappy about their relation.

“Of course, Fleur.” Harry said, moving his parchments so the Veela could sit. Hermione kissed her cheek in greeting, neither keen on public affection, the gesture was returned, and the brunette turned back to her book.

“Still no luck, Harry?” Fleur asked, setting her ink and quills beside her parchments.

The wizard sighed heavily. “None. Have you any to spare?”

Fleur shook her head. “Fresh out, I’m sorry. But I’ll be happy to help,” Harry nodded and silence lapsed over them. The Veela pulled a tome to her and settled in to read, her feet tucked beneath her legs and the book against her knees. Through the time she sat there with the three Gryffindors, she could feel Ron’s eyes boring into her profile from time to time, but paid him no heed. Hermione’s stare proved be a harder distraction to ignore, however, and she found herself flushing every time her gaze flickered up to see the lioness studying her.

Sometime after, another bell chimed, and the four went on to the Great Hall to take their meals. The Veela took to the Ravenclaw table, entertaining Gabrielle and enjoyed the looks she was receiving from Hermione across the room. The brunette watched her carefully and the glint in her eye told Fleur to expect her in her quarters later that night.

Shortly after dinner, two lay languidly in each other’s arms, their fingers intertwined as they whispered softly to one another. This embrace was different from how they usually lay, Fleur wrapped in Hermione’s arms, pressed against her chest so close, she could hear the other’s heartbeat. Hermione lay contentedly upon a pile of pillows, her cheek against the soft blonde tresses, her breath gentle against the Veela’s ear, a hand idly tracing over her back in slow, relaxed patterns.

“I had a memory surface today, during Professor Binn’s class,” Fleur spoke up softly, unable to keep the thought silent.

Hermione’s gentle chuckle rumbled beneath her ear. “That happens quite often in his class, Fleur. What did you think of?”

The blonde bit her lip, unsure of how to proceed. “Have you ever had a dream, and when you wake up, after several days, it seems to be a memory of something that actually occurred? Or, instead, have a memory of something that may have happened, and seem to be from a dream?”

Hermione mulled over the words for a moment before answering. “Several times, actually,”

“After the Yule Ball, and we came back here, before we fell asleep—”

The Gryffindor’s hands left Fleur’s body to cover the blush that rushed to color her cheeks. “Damn it,” She chided herself. “I thought that had been a dream, too… I’m so sorry, Fleur, I didn’t mean to offend or insult, or—”

Laughter shook Fleur’s form gently, half relieved over the notion. “I’m not insulted, Hermione,” She said, still chuckling.

“You should be!” The brunette insisted. “That night was as close to perfect as we could manage at Hogwarts, and then I have to go and say what I did. I know how important it is, with the partnership, I certainly didn’t mean any harm or to make it seem meaningless…” She trailed off into silence, her reddened cheeks raising her body temperature an almost alarming degree.

Fleur did not move from her position, instead drew one of Hermione’s hands away from her face to hold again. “I know you do, dearest. And I think I have someone to blame for the incompetence of that particular hour, not to mention the hour itself.” She felt the brunette draw back to cast a questioning look at her. “I believe there was something _added_ to the punch, if I remember Fred and George’s giddiness correctly.”

Hermione let out a groan, rubbing her eyes furiously. “Those conniving, scheming, reckless little weasels.” She muttered. “They should have gotten caught, for Merlin’s sake!” She continued to grumble inarticulately to herself for a few moments, slapping Fleur’s shoulder for laughing softly.

“There was no harm done, Hermione,” Fleur assured her, still chuckling. “It was something I wasn’t sure actually happened or not, too. I know how you feel, and I know you’ll tell me when it’s time. Until then, think nothing of the sort.” Fleur stretched up and kissed the lioness’s jaw softly. “I’m not in any rush, and you shouldn’t feel the need to be. Although the other things that happened that night are certainly encouraged,” This time, she was rewarded with a laugh and a kiss to her forehead, even though the blush still rested on Hermione’s cheeks.

“Well, I’m not embarrassed by the other things that happened that night,” She said softly, the flush just beginning to recede.

“What other things, love?” Fleur asked softly, looking up at her with a teasing glint in her eye. Hermione sighed heavily and kissed her lips gently, smiling slightly against her. When the blonde pulled away, she tucked her face beneath Hermione’s chin, kissing her neck a few times before settling with a sigh of her own, happy to rest against her chest and warmth, the subject dropping as softly as one closes their eyes. Hermione began scratching the Veela’s back again gently, glad to give the attention so often given to her.

Soon, Fleur’s breaths came slow and even, her eyes flicking behind their lids in the beginning phases of sleep. Weariness ebbed at her, but Hermione did not settle herself, nor extinguish the light, instead studied the woman who rested against her with a gentle, warm weight. The long muscles of her arms lay flat in sleep, rising each time she drew breath. Her strong shoulders had looked tense before, but now were soft and relaxed as well. Her blonde hair was tussled messily, framing her face in slight waves, cascading over her chest. Hermione brought her hand to graze over Fleur’s bare shoulder, not scratching with her nails, but stroking with her fingertips, watching gooseflesh rise in her wake. The Veela gave a shiver from the sensation, and lay still again.

She brought her fingers to weave through her hair, arranging it so it no longer covered her face and her cheek was free from the tresses. With a gentle hand, she touched the warm flesh there, marveling at the soft, unblemished skin.

The lioness felt a small churning sensation begin in her stomach. It wasn’t fear, or giddiness, or even relief, but a strange mixture of the three. She was still embarrassed over what had occurred, what had been said, but Fleur’s easy acceptance and forgiveness had eased the tension from her form. She felt relaxed and completely at ease, but also deeply reflective of the blonde’s understanding, and the strings of her heart tightened with fondness towards the witch in her arms.

Fleur should have been furious. Hermione would have been. But the Veela had laughed easily, wholeheartedly even, dismissing the notion and memory effortlessly when the truth was given and the apology received. Just a few months ago, she never would have thought it would have been this easy with the blonde. She never thought it would be so free. She didn’t feel the need to lie or hide or feel ashamed of anything or any thought. Fleur would listen, she would forgive if the truth was given for she valued honesty as high as she did loyalty and in her mind the two were lost if not firmly in the grasp of one another.

The lioness, half satisfied with her musings, sighed in thought. She felt as though Ron would have leapt at the chance and chomped at the bit, had she risked saying anything that so much as implied the nature of what had slipped from her lips, exhausted or otherwise. But Fleur was patient, quiet, reserved and conformed in the promise that the choice would be Hermione’s should she choose anything at all. But more than that, Fleur was comfortable with the notion and held it as serious as scientific fact. And thought caused the surge of empathy and warm spread of an emotion she couldn’t yet identify to swell in her chest.

Perhaps an unconscious question had formed in the blonde’s mind that she could be asexual, and merely curious of it but lacked the willingness to ask on normal circumstances? She surely thought a lot and considered all things possible until evidence or testimony dismissed it.

Hermione found that she didn’t care either way. She’d answered the question honestly, though terribly crudely, and found that the thought thrilled her. No, she was far from ready, but she found the idea entertaining at the very least; something to look forward to when the time came. She didn’t know how long it could take, and again found that she didn’t care. Fleur would be patient and wait as calmly and happily as she had before the kiss of acceptance. The Gryffindor was sure that sex would be no different and held with just as much, if not more honor, respect, and esteem as she had held that kiss.

With a heavy sigh of contentment, Hermione surrendered to sleep, putting the light out with a soft incantation and a flick of her wand, before nuzzling close against Fleur’s back, her arms tight and secure about the other. She took her time in planting kisses along her neck and shoulders, moving slowly and warmly as she did, smiling when she heard the blonde’s voice murmur good night to her in the darkness.

 

December gave way to January, which was flying by into February, and Harry found himself worrying over his golden egg, as Hermione had tried to prevent. Ron, of course, was no help, and when he came to Harry, initially offering help, often ended up distracting him with irritating questions such as “Why her and not me?” and “What does she have against me, it’s not like she doesn’t return my feelings.” Harry was torn between the two, and ended up withdrawing from them both in order to avoid the building crossfire, having no desire to take part in the ordeal. Although it terrified him to risk Ron’s friendship again, he advised his dear friend that this was a matter between the two of them, so it was best to leave him out of it by any and all means. This took some reminding, but eventually sunk in to some degree, so now a warning glance was given and received whenever Ron, accidentally or otherwise, tiptoed around the subject. Harry thought the whole thing was ridiculous, but he knew how to ride out the qualms of his best friends.

Fleur had started religiously taking her meals at the Ravenclaw table, lest build more tension much to Hermione’s disapproval (for she hardly cared for Ron’s comfort), but she and the lioness maintained their relation in the library and each other’s respective rooms. Harry had started spending more time with the French witch as well, although he felt strangely like he was cheating on his friendship with Ron. As time passed, he found himself siding with the girls and against the redhead more; he found Fleur to be an enormous help and a pleasure to be around; no warning glances were given and no awkward silences permeated the space between them.

The two now sat in Hermione’s corner of the library, discussing the nearing Task. Fleur examined her egg on the table, remembering the awe of learning its secret. Harry, for the thousandth time, asked her again to share her knowledge.

“Please, Fleur, tell me! I swear, I won’t tell ‘Mione.”

“I told you, Harry,” she responded, chuckling. “You’re still competition, and even if you didn’t tell her, she’d find out, anyway. She’s most skilled at happening upon information she’s not supposed to obtain; certainly you’re aware of that.”

Harry sighed in defeat. “Fine. But please, give me a hint?”

Fleur considered this briefly. “Talk to Cedric. He’s had the clue cracked for a few days. Perhaps he can give you insight that won’t result in an angry Hermione.”

“I guess I’ll have to do that then.” Harry said softly, gathering his things to leave. “Well, good night, Fleur. Thank you for the company and homework help. It’s nice to have a new tutor, sometimes, just don’t tell ‘Mione that.”

The blonde returned his smile kindly. “Good night, Harry. I recommend you find Cedric quickly, since the Task is fast approaching.” A flicker of distaste passed over his features as he heard the other Champion’s name and the blonde’s eyebrows drew together in question. “Something worries you. What is it?”

Harry feigned nonchalance with a swift shrug of shoulders. “It’s nothing, really. Just stress is all, perfectly normal.” Fleur appraised him with a knowing eye as she straightened her spine.

“I suppose a healthy amount is. If you need help with any more of your homework, I’ll be happy to help.” Harry nodded respectfully and stole silently out of the library. Fleur rearranged her papers and books on the now vacant space where Harry’s had been, fully intent on solving her riddle.

A piece of parchment had the egg’s whole song scribbled over it, and now, she continued to make notes under each line as she processed them. She’d already cracked the first few lines, since she was part siren herself, she knew merpeople can only sing underwater so it was then obvious that they lived somewhere on Hogwarts’ grounds. Then, figuring that Black Lake was the only large body of water around Hogwarts, it was only logical that the Second Task would take place there. And, just as obviously, she and the other Champions would have to search for an object that had been taken from them; Fleur underlined the word _hour_ for emphasis on her time limit. But what could the object be? Beneath the whole space the riddle took up, she wrote a list of things to keep a close eye on: her wand, her grandmother’s heirlooms, perhaps? In truth, though she valued her belongings, there wasn’t any _object_ she thought she couldn’t live without, except, of course, her wand. Other than that, there wasn’t anything she could think of and continued developing her own theories.

 _“But past an hour ― the prospect’s black,_ / _too late, it’s gone, it won’t come back.”_ She whispered. _Pass the hour mark, and object will be lost forever._ She scribbled beneath the last note, drawing an arrow to the last line. She sat back in her chair, sighing heavily.

  “But if I’m in the lake, underwater, how will I breathe?” She wondered aloud. There was one potion, she knew, but how sacred was it? Were there rules she was unaware of? Her eyes flickered to the clock, seeing that the library was nearing closing. She gathered her papers and requested a few books from Madame Pince, which took some encouraging. In her quarters, she poured through the tomes, finding nothing that was of any help.

The next day, she returned the books to the Hogwarts librarian, and spent the day after classes in the Beauxbaton library, insisting that Hermione help Harry instead when the Gryffindor arrived offering assistance. The brunette looked most unpleased but simultaneously grateful; her eyes seemed incapable of losing the bloodshot pigment and dark circles.  As the day drew on, several Beauxbaton students came to wish her luck in the upcoming Task, bringing her gifts of hot tea, coffee, and chocolate. She accepted these with reluctance, seeing the false familiarity in their eyes and hearing it in their voices.

Late in the evening, Hermione returned to the Beauxbaton library, having grown rather accustomed to the room, carrying with her a plate of food from the Great Hall. Fleur looked up in surprise at her arrival, and then glanced at the clock, awed at the hour. She presently stood and pulled a chair out for the Gryffindor, kissing her cheek in thanks for bringing supper. Hermione waved the gratitude away with a hand, rearranging the papers and books into a neat pile, safe from the danger the meal posed.

“I was a little nervous about bringing you something to eat.” Hermione said casually. “I know most libraries condemn food and drink, but I asked the librarian before I left earlier. Since it was for the Beauxbaton Champion, she said she’d overlook any spills.”

Fleur rolled her eyes. “Nonetheless, I’ll be sure to be extra-careful.” She said, unrolling her silverware and cutting into a breast of lemon-pepper chicken.

Hermione lifted a book from the table, examined the cover, and flipped through a few pages. “Have you found anything useful yet?”

The blonde nodded as she chewed and swallowed. “Actually, I’ve been bouncing an idea around; there’s a potion, the Siren’s Tonic it’s called, that allows one of siren ancestry or affiliation to revert back to a pre-evolved life form. I’ve seen my grandmother use it before in ceremonies, even taken it myself, but I’ve never brewed it. I have the recipe, but I’ve written to Grand-mère for verification and detailed instructions. It was my last resort, I assure you; I tried to do what I could by myself, but the only Veela lore written is largely speculation from outsiders.

Hermione cocked her head to the side in interest. “What were the sirens, exactly?”

“They were more ferocious merpeople, bloodthirsty, really. They’ve evolved since, splitting into merpeople and Veela. You see, Veela and merpeople came from the same ancestor, the siren, growing into different species over several generations, similarly to humans and our ape cousins. In any case, Veela left the water due to the loss of a mate, whereas the sirens evolved into to inhabit the water as they experienced a great defeat of their own and left sailors to explore the lands they had protected, and we both became more civil with time, building our villages and towns, and so forth. But, unlike merpeople, who remain half-fish, the Veela have an almost Animangus alternate form, that of a half-eagle. It’s ironic, really, considering the relationship eagles have with fish.”

Hermione chuckled, searching for a drawing of such a being in one of the books. “Harry’s riddle said something about not singing above the ground. What does that have to do with merpeople and sirens?”

“Has Harry cracked the whole riddle?” Fleur asked, unwilling to make Hermione feel obligated to give information her opposing friend.

“That part, yes.”

“And what does he think waits for us in the lake?”

“He _knows_ merpeople inhabit it.”

Fleur sighed, deciding that she was no longer at risk of putting Hermione in the possession of unfair knowledge. “Sirens used to sing to lure sailors to their deaths. Since their evolution, merpeople no longer can, above ground at least, instead shrieks and banshee screams were used to scare them away for so long, they can only sing underwater now. They did that to enable themselves to grow as a population and become a more self-sufficient people, more knowledgeable instead of reverting back to their bloodthirsty heritages.”

The Gryffindor nodded in thought. “So what does the pre-evolved life form look like?”

Fleur paused, a roll of bread in her hand and thought carefully as she took a bite. “It is different for every Veela, and I can’t describe it accurately enough.” She said at last. “Since the Veela are associated with birds, and the siren with fish, it’s quite gruesome. My grandmother, when she takes the potion, retains talons on her hands, and the curved beak of the eagle, but the body and spines of a primitive fish. The tail is the same as a merperson, but the fin is sharp like a blade.”

“How did the Veela become nearly an Animangus species? More interestingly, can you become an eagle?” Hermione’s eyebrow quirked upwards, her eyes eager and perceptive. The Gryffindor was entranced by the history of Fleur’s people, keen to learn what so few had the chance to know or ask and the opportunity was intoxicating. 

The blonde smiled as she studied the light in the lioness’s eye. “I’ve never fully transformed. The only thing that’s changed is what you’ve seen thus far. The whole story, however, is quite complicated. During the Summer Solstice, the Veela celebrate and remember the first of our kind. Perhaps you can come to the ceremony and learn more?”

Hermione’s interest spiked. “I never thought I’d be asked to attend a Veela rite, I’d love to!” She said, smiling widely.  “However, I need to get back to Harry. He’s still searching for a way to breathe underwater and I promised I wouldn’t be gone long.” The Gryffindor rose to leave, gathering her things and kissing the Veela’s lips gently, lingering here as she sighed into the touch. When she pulled away, she ran her fingers through the blonde’s hair; a small, almost shy smile graced her features. “Let me know if you need anything,”

Fleur took Hermione’s hand in her own. “I need you to get some rest; if Harry needs anything, I’ll take care of it. Go to bed, dearest.”

“At least let me take the letter to the Owlery for you,” She returned, taking the parchment before Fleur could object. Her grandmother’s owl had come to know the Gryffindor quite well and regarded her fondly, for she always brought extra treats as gifts, and this time, a bribe. The Veela smiled and thanked her, kissing her hand gently before she received another full kiss to her lips. The library was empty, and neither felt the need to hide their affections, although their passion was gentle.

The brunette smiled when she pulled away to see Fleur’s eyes glassy and her lips swollen, and leaving the library with a final kiss. Fleur sighed and turned back to her parchments, now the farthest thing from her mind and the last thing she wanted to worry over. Her plate lay empty and a few crumbs flecked the table. She set about the task of returning her table to its previous tidiness, taking care to return each book to its respective home. The last distracted her as it lay open and she found her contingency spell. She carefully read all the details of gillyweed, specifically how to collect it, and preserve it. Placing the book back in its cavity, she continued to clean her space and plan for tomorrow’s studies.

 

 

The twenty-third of February was soon upon them, and the youngest Champion still had no spell for breathing underwater. Again, the four of them gathered in the library, pouring over countless texts, desperately searching for an answer. Hermione was utterly shocked and disappointed in both Hogwarts’ once regarded ‘unlimited’ resources and Harry’s procrastination with the whole ordeal. In a wholehearted attempt, Fleur ran from the library and to the Beauxbaton carriage, seeking the book that had given her the option of gillyweed, intent on casually presenting it to Harry one way or another to ensure his safety. It was nowhere to be found.

The Veela, perhaps deciding her own fate, then sprinted to her quarters and retrieved the weed that would allow Harry to triumph in tomorrow’s task. Now she faced the question of how to deliver it to him, without Hermione’s knowledge of her assistance, which on this level was forbidden, but she sat torn between honesty and loyalty, and for the moment, loyalty held her tighter. Honesty, she decided, would have to come later. She stowed the slimy, green, wax paper-wrapped weed in her pocket, and made her way back to the castle with a few books in hand.

From faint memory, she traced her steps back to the particular staircase that most disliked being trod upon, and called out softly.

“Nora? I need your help again.” The small house elf once again appeared from the shadows, large eyes looking up at the Veela in question.

“It seemed, miss, that you had come to know these passages fairly well.”

“Indeed I have, but that’s not why I ask for help again.” Fleur knelt, and produced the small package from her pocket. “I hear Monsieur Potter has a history with a particular elf in this castle, Dobby I believe it is. If you would, ask him to deliver this to Harry tomorrow morning before the Task. It is the only way he will survive it. All he must do is swallow it before he enters the water and the effects will be almost immediate.”

Nora took the package and opened the paper carefully, seeing its contents and grimaced. “Why is it, if I may, miss, that you are helping another Champion?”

Fleur sighed heavily. “Because he didn’t ask to compete and deserves all the help he can get, and because he’s helped me, too.”

The small house elf wrapped the paper securely and stowed it in her dress pocket. “I will see it gets to Dobby. I’m sure he will be most willing to help Mr. Potter.”

Fleur bowed her head in thanks. “I must apologize, but I have nothing to offer as a token of gratitude. Please forgive me, Nora. This idea came to me quite suddenly.”

The house elf waved her away dismissively. “Mr. Potter has sacrificed much for our world. Keeping him alive is a thank-you to the entire Wizarding community. I’ll accept that as your token.”

“Hopefully it won’t be too terribly hard to keep him alive,”

“Aye, we all live in hope, miss,” Nora set off down the corridor, bare feet pattering down on the flagstones as she went.

Fleur straightened, and went back to the library, where the three still sat, looking exhausted. The Veela laid her books on the table and silently, they read again, Fleur still hopeful to find something she had overlooked before.

“Well didn’t you wait a while?” A voice spoke up. Fleur raised tired eyes to see two twin boys with fiery red hair approaching. She spared a quick glance at Hermione, whose cheeks reddened with either anger or embarrassment upon seeing them, but she said nothing.  

“We’re read every bloody book in this library, Fred!” Harry groaned.

“Well,” said the other, “I’m sorry to say but we have to take some of your help away.”

“What do you mean?” Fleur asked; the twins, surprisingly enough, looked fondly at her, not with thrall in their eyes or voices but spoke to her as a friend.

“McGonagall asked for Hermione and Ron both,” The first said, nodding to them respectively.

“In her office.” The second finished, peering down at a book.

“It’s ok, Harry, we’ll be back soon. Take the books to the Common Room, we’ll keep looking as soon as we’re back.” Hermione said, squeezing his arm in assurance. She stood and kissed Fleur’s cheek gently then offered her own for the twin gesture. The Gryffindor smiled warmly at her before giving a final kiss to her forehead after a spare moment of hesitation.

Ron and Hermione followed the twin boys out of the library, and before too much time passed, Harry leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes tiredly. Fleur continued to read silently, and soon her eyes became weary as well, taking more energy than was worth to blink. An hour passed, then another, and another. Finally, Harry laid his head upon his book, just to close his eyes for moment, but soon was snoring softly. Fleur smiled a small smile and rose, carried herself back to the carriage using all the strength she had, proper posture be damned, where she was asleep before her head hit her pillow.


	12. The Siren's Tonic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right! The Second Task! I tried to be as descriptive as I could with this one, and I really hope it shows. We'll see more Fleur/Krum rivalry here, and again, I know he was a good guy in the book, but he's an ass here. A total ass. Other than that, there's no t much to note here. Thank you to everyone who's dropped by and stuck with me! Hope you enjoy.  
> Much love,  
> RC

When Fleur woke, it was to alarm. She relaxed instantly when she saw the sun was still low in the sky and her cauldron waited patiently with the Siren’s Tonic ingredients arranged beside it. She rose carefully and stretched, setting about brewing the tonic. When it had begun to bubble, she flipped her hourglass and lay back in bed.

The sound of sand sifting through the small space was relaxing and nearly lulled her back to sleep but she resisted, rising again when the glass was emptied. She allowed it to cool slowly and dressed in her robes.

She made her way to the castle with Gabrielle, sought Hermione, but upon seeing her absence, breakfasted rather uneasily alongside her sister. Her stomach felt tight and hollow despite her nourishment, and given she’d be in the water soon, she feared she would eat too much. After she had swallowed the last of her juice, she walked the Hogwarts corridors, still searching for the brunette. She peered into the library only to find it empty, and with her brow furrowed, made her way back to the carriage in solitude, where she swallowed the tonic after busying herself as much as she could until a quarter till noon. She then put on her least favorite swimsuit with distain. It was a hideous one-piece that made her feel exposed and uncomfortably covered simultaneously. Over this, she wore the robe Madame bought specifically for her, mercifully allowing her to hide from the atrocity of the suit, and keep warm for the time being.

 

At midday, the Champions made their way to the lake, eager to get the Task over with. Fleur carefully maneuvered around puddles, lest she start the transformation early and be left flopping around like a fish. Gabrielle had sensed her unease, and took to searching for Hermione as well, although she too came up empty.

As she stood on the platform in the middle of the lake, biting cold was not the reason for her shivering despite the powder-blue robe. Something was wrong, she knew, and her stomach remained coiled painfully. While students packed into the boxes that had been set upon the surface of the lake, the Veela frantically searched for any sign of either Hermione or Harry, who had not accompanied her on the stroll here. Her unease spiked as their absence became prolonged, shifting nervously from foot to foot. Cedric and Krum also looked concerned, looking about as if they too had been expecting someone.

Ludo Bagman approached Fleur and asked if she’d seen Harry earlier that morning. She responded truthfully, and he moved on to ask presumably the same question to the remaining Champions.

“Well, I suppose Mr. Potter will be terminated from the Task. Shame, I had a bet on him.” Bagman sauntered off, and began readying the three for the Task.

Harry, running with all his strength, leapt into the mix of people, panting as he was bowed at the waist in exhaustion. Bagman’s eyes lit up and Karkaroff’s narrowed.

“Ah, Harry, what a pleasure to see you have joined us! Please, take a moment and catch your breath, but we cannot delay much longer!” He said cheerfully.

Fleur lay a hand on his shoulder, asking where he had been and if he had seen Hermione.

“She never came back to the Common Room. After Fred and George took them to McGonagall, I haven’t seen her, I thought she was with you.” The urgency in his voice over powered his fatigue as he straightened, searching for his two best friends, and came up empty.

“I’m sure they’ll be here. Did you find a spell?”

“That’s a long story, but I can compete.”

Fleur smiled happily, opened her mouth to reply, but Bagman’s voice, amplified by his wand, rang out over the lake, announcing that the Second Task was about to begin. The Champions were spaced apart from each other at intervals of ten feet, and as Bagman continued rallying the crowd, Maxime took the robe from the Veela’s shoulders, exposing her to the cold, ruthless air.

Fleur steadied herself at the edge of the dock, looking into the depths of Black Lake. She could see the sky and her own reflection looking back at her, but the glassy surface gave no token to what lurked beneath. She glanced around her, the fellow competitors had their eyes trained on the water, the crowd’s cries had died down, now whispers filled with anxiety and anticipation wove their way through and around objects to reach the Veela’s sensitive ears. She did not fail to notice that Hermione remained absent from the spectators.

She nodded to those beside her, silently wishing them good luck. She stooped down, the others mirroring her; ready to leap at the Headmaster’s command, wands protectively strapped to their waists and calves. A boom sounded from the observation tower, and, without hesitation, Fleur threw herself forward, body arrow-straight; the glass surface shattered as she passed through effortlessly. The Siren’s Tonic took its toll instantly and a faint ripping noise sounded as her swimsuit tore apart from her body and floated up. Spines sprouted from her back, her skin took a green, scaled appearance, and her eyes quickly formed an inner eyelid, which rapidly blinked away foreign debris. Her legs felt as though they were being wrapped tightly together, until she looked down and saw that she now had a strong, swishing tail treading water as her legs would. Her hands were slightly webbed, claws in place of nails, and a pair of gills on either side of her jaw. The transformation was not painful, as she’d already known, but having experienced it before didn’t make it any more comfortable.

Three other bodies had splashed in beside her; their traces already vanished from the surrounding water. She compelled her new body to fight against the frigid waters, warming itself and propelling through. Her tail pumped and carried her down, deeper, deeper, until she truly understood the origin of Black Lake’s name. She frowned deeply when she realized the tonic had neglected to allow her to see properly, but drew her wand from her waist in determination.

“ _Lumos,_ ” She called softly in a new voice, one that sounded strangled, and a ray of light leapt from her wand as she flicked it, bursting through a wall of seaweeds. Several voices shrieked, either in pain or surprise, she couldn’t tell. Fleur rolled her body in a weaving motion, her back rippling as her webbed hands directed her route. Something bit at her neck, drawing forth a surge of blood. She cast another spell over her shoulder, ridding herself of whatever the creature was. Blood leaked from her neck, staining the water and telling all of her exact location. A quick healing spell closed the wound, but the blood remained. Fleur surged forward with vigor, kicking at the water to make her trace dissipate as quickly as possible.

 Fleur flinched as the slimy blades of sea grass slithered over her skin, leaving a trail of mucus-like substance in its wake. The thought made her want to gag, but she refused the reflex. Veela and Delacour obduracy aided her greatly.

She continued on through the murky waters, vaguely aware of the leeches that found her flesh and feasted, another sweep of her wand cleared them and held them at bay for a few moments. She grinned, thinking of the other blue-bonneted women who would shy away at the mention of such vermin as leeches, how they would float back to the air and sun from the inability of controlling their bodies to fight against the bite of relentlessly icy water.

Fleur stopped, realizing how still the currents had become. How the black water became impossibly colder.  She closed her hindered eyes and took a long moment to study her surroundings with her other senses, hunter’s instincts making her keenly aware of every movement, every pulse offered to her. Electricity swirled around her, movement of many bodies, buzzing like enraged bees. Heat was detected, body heat, surrounding her. She could feel the other Champion’s heat sources, further behind her, and many other, much smaller heat signatures. Steeling herself, she waited to be challenged.

As one, they attacked the Frenchwoman, clawing, biting, and tearing at her exposed flesh. She fought, casting spell after spell, cries and screams piercing her ears as she continued to strike. She knew her assailants were grindylows, but knew she was in greater danger, for she couldn’t feel her injuries she was so numb, another aspect the tonic had failed to remedy.

The Veela fought on, tearing though the weeds and eventually breaking free from the slimy forest. When she had broken through, the attacks relented, through irritable grumbles continued. At the sight in front of her, Fleur stopped, surprised. Before her, light streamed down from the surface, somehow piercing the darkness. A beautiful monument crumbled, reminding her vaguely of the Parthenon. Around this monument, a village had been built; there were houses, and merpeople, children even, pet grindylows tied to stakes in what appeared to be yards. Bodies wove through the columns, backs facing her, and tall, sharp spears were carried in webbed, clawed hands.

Sinking back into the sea grasses, Fleur narrowed her eyes, studying the structure and movements carefully as she put her wandlight out. Several mermaids swam about, one never faltering from a column, the others circling the entire structure. Ropes tied to tiers led up to other bodies… human bodies that were somehow familiar, even with their backs toward her. There was a slight Asian girl in Ravenclaw robes beside a small boy in a Bulgarian uniform… Fleur straightened. _Krum has a brother…?_ Beside the small boy, another male was tied who had fiery red hair despite the water, and finally, beside him, a long mane dyed darker by the water tangled with itself in dark tendrils, Gryffindor robes around a female body…

Fleur lost the ability to control herself. The numbness melted away, replaced by a flare of fire burning from her heart, making her immensely aware of every laceration on her skin. The water, now much, much colder, bit into her, icy fangs sank into her muscles, nearly causing them to fail, but she pushed on.

The merpeople watched her approach, spears in hand, but never brandished. She looked at each of the captives’ faces, incredibly pale and cold, streams of bubbles issued from their lips though it appeared they had not been given gills to allow them to breathe, merely put to sleep. The other Champions had joined her now, fighting for their ‘prizes’ and safety.

Fleur kicked furiously, reaching Hermione before Viktor, whose shark’s jaws were wide and aimed at the brunette’s rope.

The grindylows, apparently enraged by all four Champions, descended upon them with a terrible relish. As one organism, they fought the Champions, biting and clawing at them. Harry had found a sharp stone, and was cutting Ron free as he cast spells of boiling water at the demons. Cedric was working through Cho’s bindings, focusing hard on the rope rather than the pests. The bound broke, and the girl began her ascent to the light, Cedric holding her securely. The grindylows left him, and now attacked the remaining Champions with stronger force.

Krum tried to nose the Veela away from Hermione, but was met by a hard kick to the gills with her tail. In anger and a voice Fleur didn’t recognize as hers, she screamed out, “Your brother, you imbecile!”

The Bulgarian shook his shark-head and tried again to remove the Veela. She bared her fanged teeth and with a graceful twist of her body severed Hermione’s bind with the blade-like edge of her tailfin. She began to swim away with Hermione in her arms, heading for the surface, when she felt several rows of sharp teeth graze at her tail. With a strong push, she forced Hermione higher before turning on the half-shark below her. She lined her body, head down, and propelled herself directly into his midsection, carrying them both back down where Harry had finally freed Ron and began cutting away at the remaining boy’s bind. She looked up momentarily and saw the ripple as Hermione’s head broke surface, her arms and legs kicking as though waking form sleep. Fleur glanced down and saw that Harry had both Ron and the boy in his grasp now, so that if Krum followed her again, both of them would be safe with Harry. The Gryffindor nodded at her, motioning for her to go, and quickly.

She cast a powerful spell below her, propelling her body through the water again, faster than before. She broke surface and as fast as the tonic had activated, it began to relinquish its power, however, every part of her that remained in water retained its primitive form as well. She lost her gills and the sudden transition from water to air was incredibly unpleasant and painful, but her tail was more than enough to help her pull Hermione to the platform. The brunette tried to get on her back, but cut her hand on the sharp spines, and settled for her shoulder and arm as she continued to gulp air.

When she reached the ledge, the twin redheads pulled Hermione from her grasp, who was instantly attended to by Madame Pomfrey. Hands reached to take Fleur out the water as well, but she turned and quickly swam back to Harry’s aid. Krum’s dorsal fin broke surface, the boy being carelessly dragged behind him, but Harry was still nowhere to be seen. She dove into the depths again, her eyes unprotected and irritated by the dirty water, and found both Ron and Harry floating upwards unconscious just a few feet below the surface, seeing that Harry’s gills were absent and his hands no longer webbed. She grabbed them and hauled them up, laboring heavily to get them both to air. One at a time, she held them tightly against her chest, and used her fist to force their diaphragms into life again. They sputtered and coughed water and gulped oxygen, trying their best to help the Veela as she fought so hard to save them both. They kicked feebly and doggy paddled to the best of their ability, unwilling to allow their heads back underwater so soon. She took their hands and thrashed her tail as quickly as she could, driving them through the waters and towards safety.

Finally, she reached the platform again and forced them out of the water before climbing out herself. A boom signaled her return and the crowd gasped as they watched the body of the primitive half-fish melt into the naked, shivering body of the Veela-girl. Her bare skin bore bite marks and scratches, gooseflesh covered her body, and blood seeped slowly from her wounds, particularly from three identical jagged lacerations on her ankle. Her ribs stretched with labored breaths, her hair clung to her back in long, wet tendrils, and small pieces of seaweed were tangled amongst the strands. Gabrielle ran to her instantly, inquiring her health in French as quickly as she could.

The crowd gasped at her nudity, staring blatantly at her, poor Neville Longbottom nearly fell from the box when he saw the gorgeous Fleur Delacour in such a state. Even the administrators seemed stunned until Maxime, hardly affected, lifted Fleur again in huge hands and wrapped the robe around her before she was guided back to the ground, leaning against a tier of the observation tower. Hermione threw herself to the Veela, casting charms to warm her before Pomfrey had recovered enough to force a Pepper-Up potion down her throat. Hermione snuggled against her, tucking her face in the crook of Fleur’s neck; seeking out whatever warmth she had to offer. The blonde complied readily, pulling her closer. She sighed heavily, closing her eyes in fatigue. 

As the judges inspected the Champions and their prizes, a green head emerged from the lake. Dumbledore stooped and spoke to him, high-pitched shrieks made up the whole of their conversation. When it was done, the merman dove back into the lake; a single ripple marked his leave.

“Well, doesn’t this make things interesting…” Dumbledore murmured. “Karkaroff, I need to speak with you about your Champion.”

Fleur’s ear perked up at this, but she looked away politely, instead focusing her attention on Hermione.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’ve been better. You?”

The Veela gave another sigh. “The same. Your hand isn’t terribly wounded, is it?”

Hermione rolled her eyes, offering her palm. The wound had already been healed, and a small pink line marked the last of its presence. “When you went back into the water, Pomfrey took care of it.”

“That’s preposterous!” Karkaroff yelled suddenly. Every pair of eyes turned to the sound.

“I will not dispute with you.” Dumbledore said carefully, holding his hands out. “The Chief reported to me as promised and thus said a half-shark attacked the other Champions, even tried to take their prizes.”

The tall Russian took Krum by the collar roughly. “Is this true?” He demanded. Krum stared blankly at him then glanced at Hermione. Fleur bristled at her side.

“She was my prize.” He said softly. Fleur carefully rose from the ground, against Hermione’s quiet protest, locking her eyes with Krum’s.

“So you fight the other Champions?! Look at me when I speak to you! You fought other Champions because a girl is more important than a fellow Bulgarian? How you disappoint me!” He lifted a hand and pointed away from him. “Go. Now!” He barked.

Krum turned and walked away, casting a final glance at Hermione and a loathing one at Fleur, who returned it with equal heat. After Karkaroff had grumbled away, the throngs of students began whispering amongst themselves nervously. Harry and Ron stumbled their way over to the Veela and a shivering Hermione. Gabrielle refused to relinquish her hold on Fleur’s hand as she snuggled into the side of her sister Hermione didn’t occupy.

Fleur looked around for a moment, finding Percy Weasley amongst the judges. Crouch was absent, as he had been at the Ball too. Was Percy here to take his place? That was the only logical reason the Veela could conceive, and let her musings drop.

“Thank you…” Ron mumbled quietly, reluctant to look at Fleur. Harry nodded beside him in gratitude.

“Yeah, you really helped us out. Dumbledore told us no one was ever in any real danger, but you saved us anyway. ‘Thank you’ isn’t enough!”

Fleur smiled at the two of them, putting Krum out of mind for a moment. “You would have done the same, I’m sure. We have to look out for each other even as we compete.”

Pomfrey made her rounds again, interrupting their conversation as she thoroughly inspected each Champion and prize, advising them to ready themselves for the scores.

Fleur stood tall and proud, Hermione refusing to leave her side, Gabrielle on the other. Harry stood at her left, Cedric beside him, and Krum stood to be judged first. Ludo Bagman gave his scores first, shaking his head as a four was given from his wand. Karkaroff, with the utmost disgust on his features, refused to give a number. Dumbledore, out of pity, perhaps, gave him a six, and Percy a five. Maxime followed Karkaroff’s example, and refused to judge.

Cedric took a total of forty-eight points, as he was innocent of any offense to his fellow contenders and the only Champion to return within the hour. Harry was awarded thirty-five points total, in praise for his successful usage of gillyweed, though penalized for failing to save his prize by himself. And finally, Fleur was given the second-place score of forty-seven, for her integrity, success in using the Siren’s Tonic, and willingness to assist a fellow Champion, even though her time had expired. She bowed deeply to the judges, remaining bowed until the applause had died.

Harry approached the Veela, a large smile on his face. “Well, you’re in the lead, if you combine your score with that of the First Task. Congratulations, Fleur.”

Even Ron had approached the Frenchwoman and offered her congratulations as well as thanks, though his ears had reddened. She smiled happily and drew herself up from the platform, insisting on a good Gryffindor celebration; Gabrielle was all too happy to comply.

Krum approached her then, obviously intent on dampening her mood. He approached her briskly, brown eyes narrowed. She took wide strides and met him halfway. “She was mine to save. She _is_ mine.” He growled lowly.

Fleur sized him up, seeing that he was much broader than she, but knew exactly how to use that to her advantage.

“What correlation do I have with a Bulgarian student, Viktor? None. He was your intended prize. She was mine. She is already mine.” Fleur whispered. “Surly you can see it. She kissed me, accepted me, and she will never be yours. Perhaps you need to focus on your own school more, if you were so keen on giving up a brother Bulgarian.” Fleur turned sharply, helping Harry to his feet, and walking with him to Hermione’s side. She placed an arm around her shoulders, giving her what little warmth was left on her body.

Krum glowered slightly, straining to control his expressions. He stalked off to the other side of the dock, away from the Veela, a smart move, indeed.

Dumbledore began his speech, saying what an ‘excellent’ job all the Champions had done, and how the requirements for the Third and final Task would be given to them shortly.

After the Headmaster finished, the crowd trickled away, going on about their day, congratulating the Champions on their victories. Hermione dried her hair, the mane returning to the bushy mess it had been her first years at Hogwarts. Fleur preferred to allow her own tresses to dry in the sun, unaided.

“Why don’t we all go into Hogsmeade to celebrate? I know the next weekend is about two weeks away, but I still think we could all use it and go out together.”

“I think that’s a great idea! You haven’t seen Hogsmeade yet, have you Fleur?” Hermione piped. The Veela shook her head.

“No, but I would still like to,” She answered. “After all the things Hermione’s told me about it.”

Ron cast Harry a skeptical look but remained quiet. “Then it’s settled.” The wizard said decidedly. “We’ll all go and have a good time and celebrate in two weeks’ time.”


	13. Hogsmeade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for my sudden disappearance. North Carolina had another 'what is this frozen precipitation falling from the sky?! ' moment. Except this time it was a truly worrisome storm, and not a little pansy blast. Anyway, the internet was down for days, and its still screwy even now, but at least I can get online. I hope you all enjoyed the Second Task and I hope the third lives up to expectation! As always, feel free to drop me a comment, question or suggestion if you feel the urge!   
> Much love,  
> RC

Classes resumed after the Task, and life returned to normality, or as close as one could get in Hogwarts. Fleur was met with stares and dark blushes as she entered the Great Hall for breakfast the following Monday. At first, she balked, but then remembered that just a short time ago, most, if not all, of the student body had seen her stark naked after the tonic had completely worn off.

This unwanted attention continued throughout the week and into the weekend, even as she was strolling down the Great Hall for lunch on Saturday. The Veela rolled her eyes and continued on her way, being summoned to the Gryffindor table. She happily took her place beside Hermione, and greeted the group gathered there.

“Well it seems Fleur’s still receiving more looks than usual.” Ginny jived, gesturing around.

Hermione chuckled and rolled her eyes. “You won’t believe the obscene questions I’ve been asked this week. Filthy, really,”

“I don’t see what the big deal is,” Fleur said dejectedly. “It was just a naked body. Everyone has one.”

“But not everyone has _yours_.” Ginny stressed. “And apparently everyone thinks Hermione’s had it by now too,” Hermione looked at her, her features paling incredibly before flushing hotly, searching for a retort, while Ron choked on pumpkin juice. Fleur looked down at the tabletop in thought, wishing her heritage had a more ideal possession of beauty.

“It’s only been a few months…” She murmured softly.

Harry patted Ron’s back gently and quickly diverted the conversation. “So, everyone ready for the Hogsmeade visit? I really could use a good walk.” He said this quickly, slipping an extra flask of pumpkin juice into his bag. Fleur caught this movement, but was cut off by Hermione as she opened her mouth to speak, the lioness grateful for the distraction Harry provided.

“Shall we go after lunch? Show Fleur around like we promised?” Hermione piped, looking at the Veela happily, the ghost of a dark blush gracing her cheeks. As their eyes met, Harry took this time to shove several chicken legs into his bag with the flask.

The rest of the group consented, never allowing a word from Fleur, and after they finished eating, went to Flitch to get permission to visit the village, while Fleur obtained it from her own headmistress.

Shortly after noon, the four of them made their way into the village as promised, celebrating the late triumph of the Task. The brunette insisted on showing Fleur around every inch of the squat little village. She and Fleur disappeared several times, leaving Harry and Ron to themselves in Zonko’s Joke Shop, while the two of them explored Hermione’s favorite places, such as Honeydukes and Flourish and Blotts.

The Veela had taken quite a bit of gold with her, intent on spoiling Hermione with sweets and perhaps a few books, but the Gryffindor was having none of it, instead buying Fleur mementos of her visit; a fashionable new quill, several little bags of candies, and a short impromptu date at Madam Puddifoot’s. The pair of them enjoyed their time, free from the stresses of the Task and responsibility. Hermione began to steal kisses from Fleur happily, more liberated than she had ever seen before. The Gryffindor would lead her behind an isle to show her something of interest, and would kiss her out of joy when she saw Fleur delighted.

The blonde was quite unused to the show of affection, however, she accepted it freely, and finally was pulled into a pub called The Three Broomsticks in which several students were bustling about but wasn’t nearly as busy as the Gryffindor had seen before. Hermione glanced around briefly for the boys, but coming up empty, found a table and ordered two butterbeers, which Fleur tasted hesitantly. She was soon enjoying her second when the boys arrived, their arms full of sweets. As one, they collapsed into their chairs and spread the sweets between the four of them. Hermione favored a pack of Pumpkin Pasties, while Fleur cautiously opened a Chocolate Frog.

The four of them indulged in light chitchat, even Ron seemed to have forgotten the earlier conversation and joined in without blushing. Harry glanced at his watch and began to rise. The Veela looked to Hermione in question, who also rose from her seat.

“We’re going to go meet someone, Fleur. It’s a usual arrangement for us, you see.”

Fleur got to her feet, question written over her features, but stood by Hermione regardless. “All right, who are we meeting?”

“Hermione, I don’t think it’s a good idea…” Ron mumbled from her left.

“She’ll be fine, Ron. Harry and I both trust her.” The four filed out of the shop, any other question from Fleur fell to deaf ears. They trekked up a steep trail leading away from the village, in the distance, mountains were snow-capped and the winds brought the stinging cold down from them. Frost crunched underfoot as they continued, the abundant houses of Hogsmeade becoming more and more spread out, until they were at the very edge of town and a large black dog greeted them with a newspaper in its mouth. It wagged its tail happily upon seeing them, and started up a narrow trail at the mountain’s foot. Fleur paused momentarily, but was urged on by Hermione’s hand pulling her own. The four followed the dog up the mountainside, soon panting and pulling off their outer layers of clothing despite the cold, while the canine trudged on happily. When they had climbed nearly halfway, they came upon a narrow fissure in the rock face, through which the dog had disappeared and the three Gryffindors readily followed.

Inky darkness seemed to seep forth from the small crack that barely allowed passage, but the Veela loyally followed Hermione as she disappeared into the black. A small, winding opening gave way to a space the size of a living room, burning candles adorned the walls and where a large horse-eagle stood with a chain collar loose around his neck.

“Hello, Buckbeak!” Hermione called cheerfully, bowing deeply before the hippogriff. The beast responded by bowing back and clicked his beak happily. He nuzzled Hermione gently, and then turned his attention to the Veela. Fleur bowed at the waist, the gesture was returned, and the hippogriff allowed her to stroke his feathers.

“This is who you meet?” The Veela asked quietly, her whisper resonating in the cavern.

“Not exactly,” Hermione straightened her back and turned to the Frenchwoman. “Who we’re actually meeting is Harry’s godfather, and you might be a little shocked but—”

“Sirius!” Harry cried, running into the arms of a grizzled, dirty man. Fleur’s eyes widened as she recognized him, and had her wand ready in a heartbeat. Hermione responded just as quickly and moved in front of her, her palm against the tip of the Veela’s wand. 

“Sirius Black is not a murderer.” Hermione said calmly, looking into the Fleur’s eyes although she looked past her. “He was framed by You-Know-Who. He saved us last year, protected us from Peter Pettigrew, who sold him out to begin with. He never killed anyone, Fleur.” Hermione stepped closer to Fleur, kissing her cheek gently, keeping the tip of the wand held tightly in her grasp. “You believe me, don’t you?”

The dark blue eyes blinked once before breaking themselves from their stare and turning to the brunette. Hermione smiled up at her in reassurance, and slowly, her wand was lowered.

“You are innocent?” Fleur asked quietly, tonelessly, looking back at the man, who had since released Harry.

“I am. I can prove―”

Fleur held up her hand, her brow knit in thought, her eyes downcast. “My father said something didn’t make since…” She paused briefly. “How did you escape Azkaban?”

“I have an unregistered Animangus form of a black dog. I took advantage of being malnourished and managed to slip through the bars in the dog form. The only thing that kept me sane was the memory of my innocence, which is not a happy one, mind you, so the dementors could not take it from me. I swam to shore after escaping to protect Harry after I saw what had been Scabbers, which was actually Peter, in the Daily Prophet. I had to protect Harry, you see; his mother and father made me godfather shortly after he was born, and if the only thing I could do for them was protect their son, I was going to do just that. Unfortunately, Pettigrew slipped away, probably back to the Dark Lord, but at least I kept these three safe.”

The words _these three safe_ pounded against the Veela’s skull, thoughts took root and grew rapidly from them. _He protected her. He kept her safe._ She turned to Hermione, unwilling to take a single testimony as pure truth. “This is true?”

The brunette nodded.

Fleur bit her lip and nodded. “I must offer apologies. My only thought―”

“Protect her, I’m sure.” Sirius said, glancing at Hermione with a knowing smile. “You’ll be doing a lot of that, I’m afraid, magnets for trouble, this lot. Your name is Fleur, correct?”

“Yes, Mr. Black. Fleur Delacour.” He shook her hand chuckling.

“No one has addressed me like that in thirteen years, Fleur. Call me Sirius, please. I hear you’re Veela? Quite impressive. So, tell me about the Task, how was it?” Sirius said, settling into a large chair he had conjured, summoning several more for his guests. Harry handed him the bag he had carried from the castle, and as he opened it, gratitude filled his expression when his hand emerged with a chicken leg. They, seated comfortably, then launched into a recount of the Task, their scores, what they found particularly difficult while Sirius ate his first proper meal in months.

“I’m just glad you found a spell, Harry,” Hermione piped. “I hadn’t thought of gillyweed. Who thought Herbology could be this useful?”

“Actually, that’s the strange thing, Dobby gave it to me. He woke me in the common room, where I was waiting for you, and told me I was running late and gave it to me. Something about ‘saving my Wheezy…’” Fleur smiled happily and looked around the cave, lest she meet the eyes of Harry or Hermione. Buckbeak had settled himself in a heap of feathers on the floor, looking at each of them expectantly. Sirius threw a bone to him, starting in on a loaf of bread Harry had managed to smuggle.

“I must apologize for my manners,” Sirius began. “I haven’t eaten like this for weeks. Thank you, Harry, for bringing this to me.” He continued to eat, joining the conversation a few words at a time. “Now, what about the conspiracy you wrote to me about? Something dealing with Crouch?”

Harry then began the recount of all the strange things happening during the Tournament, from Percy’s taking Crouch’s place as a judge and his strange reappearance in the forest. Sirius looked drawn and concentrated, and Fleur seemed engrossed as well. She hadn’t heard of any of the strange things occurring and chastised Hermione for neglecting to tell her.

“Well, we’re used to only having the three of us to find trouble, not four…” Hermione answered sheepishly. The conversation continued for several hours, until the small crack of sunlight at the entrance of the cave had turned pink.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Sirius. I hope you fair well, and if you need anything, I’ll do my best to provide.” Fleur shook the man’s hand again, dipping her head in respect.

“Thank you, Fleur, I really do appreciate the gesture.” He turned to Harry. “Keep me up to date on the matters in Hogwarts. And do try to stay out of trouble.” He cocked an eyebrow at his godson.

“I’ll avoid as much trouble as you and Dad did.” Harry laughed, embracing Sirius. The older wizard laughed and clapped his back, then hugged both Ron and Hermione before taking his dog form again, insisting on escorting them back to town.


	14. The Third Task

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I'm two weeks behind, I thought I'd go ahead and post two chapters at once. So have fun. Hopefully I won't be delayed again. We're nearing the homestretch now!  
> Much love,  
> RC

Days passed and four friends found themselves worrying over what Harry had witnessed in Dumbledore’s Pensieve. Fleur had kept her arm tight around Hermione’s shoulders as Harry recounted the memories he saw. The Veela sat so ridged Hermione thought she had stopped breathing at times. A sigh lifted the Gryffindor’s breasts and lowered her eyebrows.

“If You-Know-Who’s returning to power, how will we know, and more importantly, how can we prevent it?”

No one had an answer. Hermione bit her lip hard against her frustration. She let her head fall into her hands.

“I’m not sure which we should worry about more.” Ron spoke up. During the weeks since Hermione’s acceptance of Fleur’s partnership, the tension emitting from the redhead had eased tremendously, so much so, he could hold an entire discussion with her without a single flush.

 Hermione grasped one of Fleur’s and Harry’s hands tightly in her own. “Whatever happens tomorrow, please, please, for the love of Merlin, _please be careful…”_ She flung her arms around Harry, squeezing the breath from him, then turned and did the same to Fleur. Throughout the night, the four of them practiced spells they hadn’t mastered yet. Fleur gave insight and new spells to Harry, and Hermione continued marking off spells from a list she’d kept as Harry mastered them. The two Champions had dueled together in practice all throughout the term, and now, Harry and Fleur were nearly even competition with one another. Hermione had even insisted upon entering the dueling herself, afraid her skill had fallen below her intellect of the spells, although it went against the Veela’s grain to strike her with a hex. The lioness, it seemed, had no qualms when it came to hexing _her_ however, and soon neither held back anything in their duels, but each and every time the other so much as stumbled backwards, they rushed forward to steady them, lest they fall.

They stayed up to the wee hours of morning, and around three o’clock, Hermione went up to her quarters and brewed a strong sleeping tonic, and brought two doses down for both of the boys.  

Hermione ordered them to retire to bed shortly thereafter, and reluctantly so. Even after the two women had taken the tonic, and as she lay wrapped in Fleur’s arms, the Gryffindor still felt distraught. The Veela’s breath came short beneath her cheek and she heard her lashes against the pillowcase each time she blinked.

“Fleur…?” Hermione whispered.

“Yes?”

“Have you slept yet?”

“No.”

Hermione sighed heavily. “Dearest…”

“I don’t know if I can protect him this time, Hermione.” She said flatly.

“It’s not your job to protect him.” She whispered back.

“No, but with all this mischief within the Ministry and now Dumbledore’s memories, and the possibility of Voldemort returning to power, I feel like I must do something.”  When she uttered the Dark Lord’s name, Hermione stiffened in her arms. The Veela drew a deep breath and shook her head, dismissing her thoughts. “Try to sleep, darling.” The Veela’s voice was softer now, her body relaxing beneath the Gryffindor. “I will do everything I can.”

After several long moments, Hermione still hadn’t found sleep, she kicked the blanket down to the foot of the bed as the blonde’s radiating heat made the blanket far from necessary.

 “Dearest,” Fleur murmured.

“Yes?”

“Would you mind if I took my shirt off? It’s a bit warm in here.” Hermione silently cursed herself for the tonic and nodded against her chest.

“Yes, I suppose it’s alright…”

Without preamble, Fleur slipped her nightshirt off, the warmth from her chest rolling freely from her skin. When she settled again, Hermione was hesitant to nestle against her again, being so bare.

“Come on, love. In the unfortunate event that something should happen to me tomorrow, you should at least have felt some forbidden part of me.” The Gryffindor hesitantly found her favorite place against the blonde’s chest and beneath her chin, now soft and bare under her cheek. Her hand gently traced over the Veela’s skin, the curve of her stomach and defined shape of her hips. Fleur sighed into her hair, making contented noises occasionally as Hermione’s fingers trailed over her ribs. She was soon asleep, cuddling the brunette against her body dearly, the tonic finally having done its duty. Hermione fought the effects of it as her eyes drooped. She closed her eyes and finally let the full weight of her head rest on the Veela’s exposed breast, warm and soft beneath her. She could not see the Veela, so late was the hour and so cloudy the night, but she felt the beauty beneath her cheek with each breath the Veela drew. As she counted Fleur’s breaths, she prayed harder and more truthfully than she ever had before, to each and every god she knew by name. She asked for them to protect Fleur, to defend Harry, and to punish the deity that even considered allowing Voldemort to return to the world of the living. She begged for another night with the blonde Veela, for a chance to see her beauty and feast upon it one day and to finish the ritual they had so recently begun.

The young, intelligent Gryffindor fell asleep in prayer, her left hand clutching at Fleur’s hip. The tonic prevented any dreams from intruding her slumber, but even so, she drifted somewhere just beneath the layer of consciousness and above that of oblivion that still allowed her anxiety.

 

When morning came, Hermione found herself nestled against the Veela’s back, warmth radiating off her skin so much so, the duvet had been kicked to the floor hours before. She stretched lazily, appraising Fleur’s body in the morning light. Her torso curved into an hourglass figure of flawless pale skin, a single dimple rested at the base of her spine and a few freckles graced her shoulders. Even in sleep, the Veela’s muscles were toned and apparent, most evident and surprising were those in her shoulders. For someone of Fleur’s stature, a muscular build was not expected, but undeniably present. The Veela stretched suddenly as she awakened. Her arm came up and flexed impressively before falling back to her side. She rolled over to face Hermione, who blushingly turned her eyes away from the bare chest in front of her. Fleur pulled the sheet over her chest, seeing the other’s blush.

“Good morning, Hermione.” Fleur purred, taking the Gryffindor in her arms tightly. “How did you sleep?”

“Fairly well, after the tonic kicked in. You?”

Fleur yawned widely and allowed her breath to rush from her lungs on exhale, settling her cheek atop Hermione’s hair. “About the same, actually; I can’t recall any dreams.”

Hermione said nothing, content with the silence. She snuggled closer to the blonde, feeling the warmth seep into her bones against the chill of morning.  

“Your last exam is today.” Fleur whispered. Hermione stiffened in her arms then melted again. “You forgot?”

“I’ve had more important things to worry over.”

The Veela did not reply, instead settled to kiss Hermione’s forehead gently. The two longed lay in bed for the majority of the morning, both unwilling to rise and perform mundane tasks. Finally, they did, and met the boys at the table for breakfast.

“So,” Fleur began after greeting the others. “Would your parents mind if I came to spend some time with you over summer?”

“Of course not, Fleur, I told you they want to meet you ages ago. They’ll be ecstatic.” Hermione glanced at the time. “I’ve got to run; the exam starts in thirty minutes and I wanted to look over my notes one last time.”

“I’ll walk to class with you; I have a paper to turn in to Professor Binns anyway.”

“I do apologize, Ms. Delacour, but I’m afraid that will have to wait.” Professor McGonagall spoke up from behind Fleur. “The Champions’ families have been invited to watch the proceedings of the final Task, and all the Champions are expected to greet them.”

“Our families?” Harry murmured, trading a glance with Hermione and Ron

“Yes, indeed, Mr. Potter. They are expecting you.” The sorceress turned and walked away, giving no further instruction.

Fleur rose from her seat the moment after the witch had left their presence. An excited spring was evident in her step as she escorted Hermione to her classroom, against McGonagall's advice.

“Would you like to meet them, after your exam? I know they’re dying to meet you, after all my letters.”

“Yes, dearest, I’d love to, for the third time.” Hermione nearly chided, smiling widely as she kissed Fleur’s cheek gently. “But right now I need to get a good grade.”

The Veela rolled her eyes. “You could do that in your sleep.”

Hermione chuckled and kissed her again, this time her lips. “I’ll see you for lunch, alright? Don’t get into any trouble.” With that, she entered the classroom and took out her notes for a final time.

Fleur all but sprinted back into the Great Hall, where she told Harry her family would cheer for him as well, if no family had come to cheer him on. As the two entered into the chamber adjacent of the Great Hall, Fleur promptly flung herself into her mother’s arms at first glance, blubbering excitedly in French. To Harry’s great surprise, Ms. Weasley took him tightly into her arms with a shout of “Surprise!” painfully loudly in his ear. Fleur shot him a questioning glance and received a thankful, relieved one in return.

Fleur’s mother looked around, her brow furrowed. “Where is Hermione?” she asked.

“She had to take an exam, Mama, but she’ll be with us for lunch.” The Delacour matriarch seemed disappointed but nodded all the same.

“And there’s my little champion!” A thunderous male voice boomed. Fleur soon found herself being lifted up and spun around in the arms of her father, the bristles of his moustache tickling her cheek as he kissed her.

“Papa!” She chided loudly, slapping his shoulder. “Put me down, you’re making a scene!” 

 The large man released his daughter promptly and settled for a hug instead, chuckling against her. Gabrielle leaped into her father’s arms as soon as they had relinquished their hold on Fleur, excitedly hugging him as tight as her arms could.

“Would you like a tour? We have some time before lunch starts if you’d like to take a look.”

The decision was unanimous, and paired with the Weasley family as Harry introduced them to Fleur and her family. Ms. Weasley didn’t look pleased at meeting her, keenly aware of her son’s infatuation with her intended mate as well as her dealings with said mate, but treated her politely and respectfully and soon warmed to her presence with the help of Harry’s telling her of the Veela’s assistance throughout the Tournament thus far as well as disproving Rita Skeeter’s false articles of the three of them being an item together.

Fleur’s parents got along easily with them as well, and congratulated Harry on being the youngest wizard to ever compete. The chitchat continued throughout the walk of the grounds, and Fleur even took them inside the carriage. Memories and stories were shared, recalling several acts of rebellious rule-breaking and punishments. They were laughing together as they made their way back down from the Gryffindor Tower to settle in for a late lunch before the Third Task. At its mention, Harry began shifting his weight nervously from foot to foot, until Monsieur Delacour clapped him on the back.

“Don’t worry, son, you’ll do fine.” A thick accent was paired with a kind smile and was returned by Harry, who after conversing extensively with Fleur had come to understand French accents fairly easily.

Fleur quickened her pace as they approached the doors to the Great Hall, and found Hermione sitting alone at the usual spot. She kissed the girl’s cheek gently before turning to introduce her parents.

“Hermione, this is my mother, Apolline, and my father, André.” The witch and wizard took turns hugging the Gryffindor tightly before settling in and striking up a conversation with her. When the conversation broke, the few times it did, Hermione turned to greet Ms. Weasley and Bill, inquiring of their well-being and health until another question was asked. Ron soon joined them, looking like he’d just risen from the dead with a mixed expression of relief and still-lingering anxiety.

“How’d the exam go, Ron?” Bill asked kindly, appraising his brother. By now, the rest of the Weasley clan had joined, and Fred jerked his chin up at his brother playfully as he’d settled in with a hug and kiss from his mother.

“Looks to me he failed, that one,”

“Or thinks he did.” His twin chimed in.

“Oh stop that, I’m sure he did fine!” Ms. Weasley said, swatting at the twins.

Fleur smiled broadly and chuckled as she watched the usual proceedings of the Weasley family, Hermione squeezing her hand tightly.

The large group seemed content to sit and chat with one another for the whole of the afternoon, but ended rather suddenly as Fleur noticed the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall had faded from blue to a sunset purple. Dumbledore rose from his throne-like chair and silence fell over the chatter in the Hall.

“Ladies and gentleman, honored guests and students, in a few minutes’ time I will ask you to make your way to the Quidditch pitch for the final Task of the Triwizard Tournament. Champions, please follow Mr. Bagman down to the stadium now.”

Fleur and Harry stood together and traded a nervous look. The Veela bent forward and kissed Hermione’s cheek gently, giving her hand a final squeeze. She turned to her parents and hugged them each in turn. Good luck was given to the two of them, and together, the Beauxbaton’s and the second Hogwarts’ Champions exited the Great Hall with the others, wishing luck to their competitors as they met them.

When they arrived at the Quidditch field, they did not recognize it as such. The field had been renovated and now boasted twenty-feet-high hedge that ran round the perimeter of the field with a single space left. Fleur and Harry traded a glance after they considered the maze, and the darkness of the entrance into it.

The seats in the boxes began to fill, and Fleur caught sight of Hermione, sitting between her mother and Ms. Weasley. She waved excitedly as she caught her eye and blew her a kiss. The Veela caught it and held it to her heart, sending a kiss back in return.

Several professors had gathered around, and McGonagall had begun to speak.

“We will be patrolling around the outside of the maze,” she said simply. “If you wish to be withdrawn, send red sparks into the air and one of us will come to get you, understand?” The Champions nodded their understanding.

Bagman’s voice rang out amplified by his wand. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Third and final Task of the Triwizard Tournament is about to begin! Allow me this time to remind you where the points stand. In first place with eighty-five points—Ms. Fleur Delacour of Beauxbaton’s Academy!" The blonde received a warm applause and loud cheers from the stands. "In second place, with eighty-four points—Mr. Harry Potter of Hogwarts School!” Applause broke out from the stands, echoing into the night. “In third place, we have Mr. Cedric Diggory, also representing Hogwarts with eighty points!” Again, the stadium filled with cheering. “And finally in fourth place, after a major penalty from the Second Task, we have Mr. Viktor Krum of Durmstrang Institute with sixty-five points!” This applause was more polite than cheers, and even the Durmstrang students seemed reluctant to forgive their bother of his misplaced priority during his time spent in the Black Lake. Nonetheless, the four Champions still shook hands with one another and wished luck.

“So, on my whistle, Fleur will enter the maze, and shortly after, I will whistle again to admit Harry, and so on,” Said Bagman. “Three—two—one—” He gave a short blast and the Veela hurried forward into the maze. The noise of the cheering crowds died as soon as the Veela’s following foot had passed into the maze. Fleur pulled her wand from its sheath and whispered _“Lumos”_ and lit the way before her. After she had fully entered the maze, Fleur killed her light but kept her wand drawn. Patiently, she waited, just inside the bushes, and listened for the whistle that would admit Harry. When the lion entered, he was surprised, but very pleased to see Fleur waiting for him. He smiled a small, nervous smile at her, before the two set off through the maze.

“I don’t suppose we’ll be any help to one another on this one, Harry.” Fleur sighed as they walked and found themselves nearing a fork.

“No, it doesn’t appear that way…” The wizard trailed off.

“I do wish you the best of luck, Harry. Your skill has improved beyond measure.”

The boy smiled and shrugged. “If it hadn’t been for you and Hermione I’m sure I’d be dead now.” They rounded a corner and heard Bagman’s whistle blow again, admitting Cedric.

“Either way, Harry, it’s a fair fight now. I’m sure you’ll do fine.” A shiver rolled through the Veela’s body. “We’d better split up now. I'm getting anxious.” Fleur murmured, studying her hand.

“You’re right; your pupils are silts already. Good luck Fleur and thank you for everything.” Harry opened his arms and embraced the French witch tightly. She returned the gesture with a smile.

“Keep your eyes open, Harry.” And with that, she trotted down the right fork in the maze, leaving Harry to take the left. She broke into a sprint shortly after; her shoes had been left behind her at the entrance of the maze unbeknownst to the patrolling professors. Her footfalls were silent as they struck the ground; her breath was forced even and slowly through her nose rather than her mouth. She stopped to allow her teeth time to come in as they became tight, and instead of leaving them on the ground to be discovered, stowed them in her pocket for safe keeping.

The dim light was more than easy to see though, as her eyes had taken the appearance of the Veela and easily perceived the maze surrounding her. A boulder blocked her path in the distance, and she, ever tactical, crept upon the rock just to make sure it was in fact a rock. She looked up to the sky, found Polaris, and knew that she must continue this way.

When she saw no danger beyond the large slab of stone, she backtracked and took a running start, vaulting over it and landing silently, crouched low to the ground. No sound betrayed its maker as she waited patiently, and it wasn’t until a vine began to twist around her ankle that she muttered another spell to free herself and ran again.

The air around her chilled suddenly, alarming her to a great degree. She slowed her pace, measuring every step, and soon smelled rot and decay. Her breath came shallow, and when she turned, dead fingers reached for her from a long, tattered sleeve. The dementor was upon her in seconds, seeking out the bountiful soul she had to offer. Her mind hazed and dulled, thoughts slipping through delirium.

 _Yes, Fleur, let your mind go. Give in to death._ She felt her body temperature drop as her soul was gradually disconnecting from her body. She tried desperately to move, but her muscles seemed unconcerned with the danger so near; her heart was only one carrying out the correct actions as it pounded away, keenly aware of the threat.

She took her mind back for a moment, just a moment was all she needed. Something happy, she reminded herself. Something happy… The Yule Ball came back to her with surprising force. The way Hermione had swept down the staircase like a goddess, the way she held the Veela’s hand as they danced, and how hungrily she had kissed her lips in the Astronomy Tower… That kiss. That single, first kiss that burned through her heart like wildfire, that left her body aching for more but left her soul content.

The heat of that kiss had sent her body into a frenzy, and recalling the memory of Hermione’s acceptance restored her mind. She lifted her wand, against the dementor’s demands, and shouted, _“Expecto Patronum!”_

An enormous white light burst from her wand. It leapt like water spewing from a spout but did not remain without form. The light came together and built an enormous feline, forelegs outstretched, claws and teeth bared. The lioness attacked the darkness with lethal intentions, not allowing the creature escape, but delivering death to death itself. She tore through the dementor’s robes, snarling fiercely, and from the depths of her mind, Fleur could hear the creature screaming. She did not dare lower her wand until her Patronus had finished devouring the dark entity, and even when she did lower her wand, the lioness remained.

“So this is what you look like…” Fleur mused, looking into the lion’s bright eyes. “I’ve been longing to meet you.” The lioness blinked, and made a move as though to nuzzle the Veela, but instead of pressure, she felt warmth where the light touched her. Fleur looked back down the direction in which she’d been heading, and sighed heavily as the vines started to move around her. “I suppose we should get going…” The lioness took a few steps forward, her ears pricked up in search of sound and her eyes scanning the surrounding hedges, her fur bristled. She reported no threat, and evaporated into the air silently.

A pang of loneliness struck her with the Patronus’s departure, but she was happy to have finally conjured a corporeal. She straightened her spine, and continued down the chosen path, the earth silent beneath her feet. Her pace quickened with anticipation, her pupils dilated further. 

Through the next fifty yards or so, goose bumps rose along every inch of her skin; her hair bristled and her lip drew back to show her new teeth. She felt eyes on her, and when the hedge in front of her began to rumble and rise, she turned tail ran back to the boulder. When she reached the boulder, she leaped again, but instead of going over it, she used it as a springboard, and soared back to the Blast-Ended Skrewt’s path. The beast was enormous; at least ten feet long and covered in armor, battle-ready and armed with a long stinger. The Veela let herself fall onto the skrewt’s back, holding on tight while casting spells. The beast tried to use its weapon against her, but found she was too close to the base of its tail to be used safely.

The giant scorpion wheeled, crashing around into the surrounding hedges. With a great surge of determination, the Veela pointed her wand at the boulder and shouted _“Wingardium Leviosa!”_ The boulder obediently rose into the air and crashed down onto the skrewt, killing it in a matter of minutes.

The Veela climbed down off the creature’s back and started back down the path on which she’d met the skrewt. Even knowing the thing was dead, she still felt uneasy. A spell was muttered behind her and was deflected without a moment to spare.

“Professor Moody…?” Fleur murmured upon turning, her wand still raised in defense.

“Damned, bloody half-breed!” he shouted, throwing another curse at her. Again, she deflected it and bared her teeth.

“What are you doing?! Professors don’t attack stu—” another spell. Fleur found her back pressed against the hedge and quickly stepped forward, setting her teeth. “Fuck off, old man.” Against her better conscious, she sent a powerful disarming spell at the man, following up with a quick Stun, both of which hit their target, surprising her, but not unsettling her. “And I’m _quarter_ , not half.”

“You can’t protect that boy forever, half-breed!” the man yelled as his body remained useless for the moment. “The Dark Lord’s waiting for him, but you’ll never get there in time!” The Veela’s eyes widened and she ran, back to the dead skrewt’s body, back to the fork in the maze and down the left fork where Harry had gone.

Not a hundred yards down the way, and she felt a surge of pain shoot into her back. A scream left her throat and she felt the vines of the hedges wrapping round her body, pulling her into the depths.

The brambles scratched over her skin, digging into the soft flesh and tearing it, but she remained still, unable to move. With great effort, she managed to close her eyes and protect them from damage, but the fight against the Stunning spell was depleting her of energy. When she was delivered outside of the maze, Hagrid lifted her into his arms and carried her to Madame Pomfrey.

“Moody… not Moody…”

“What was that dear?” The medi-witch asked as she performed healing spells.

“Volde…mort. Moody. Here… Harry… Get Harry!” she fell limp on the hospital bed she’d been placed upon. Hermione had reached her side and helped the witch heal her.

“She was muttering something about Moody and You-Know-Who… I couldn’t make heads or tails of it.” Pomfrey reported to Hermione, who stopped mid-spell and ran to Dumbledore. Apolline and André had joined their unconscious daughter and were looking after Hermione, questioning why she’d ran away. But Dumbledore was nowhere to be found. The best she could do was Professor McGonagall, who ran with her to Fleur’s bedside after hearing what the Gryffindor had said.

“She’s sleeping now, Professor.” Pomfrey said when McGonagall had inquired.

“What did she say?”

“Something about Moody, and You-Know-Who, and Harry. Sounded like gibberish to me.”

“Is she alright?” Hermione breathed, appraising the Veela.

“Oh, she’s quite alright. Just Stunned is all. Rather powerful one too, knocked her out. She just needs a little sleep.” Hermione took the Veela’s hand in her own, appraising the long, dirty nails she adopted as the form of the Veela started to take. She glanced over her shoulder as McGonagall rushed off in search of the Headmaster. Hermione took a long look at the maze, where, somewhere within its depths, Harry still trod.

The Gryffindor continued to watch the blonde, even as she slept. It didn’t seem to be a very restful sleep, for she kept jerking and grasping imaginary objects. Her expression was contorted into one of concentration and determined strength, but if she were trying to wake, it was to no avail.

 

After ages of waiting, Harry returned, clutching Cedric’s arm in one hand and the cup in the other. He was battered and bleeding badly, but he was alive. At first, the crowd cheered, but quieted as they noticed something off about Harry’s actions. He clutched the Hufflepuff Champion, and seemed to be shaking against him.

Hermione ran to him, fighting to reach the two.

“Cedric’s dead!” Someone shouted, adding more vehemence to the already chaotic crowd. Amos ran to his son, sobbing into the boy’s still, silent chest. Dumbledore arrived then, wrenching Cedric’s arm free from Harry’s grasp.

Hermione fell at Harry’s side, casting a few healing charms until she was rudely shoved away by one of the officials.

“He’s back…” She heard Harry whimper. “Voldemort’s back…”

Fleur did not wake against Hermione’s best efforts. Pomfrey had said that her blubbering had been due to a dream, rather than real events or memories and beyond that, Dumbledore had more to worry about that spend time on silly dream-talk. The Gryffindor insisted and finally, the blonde woke.

She groaned loudly, holding a hand to her forehead. It throbbed painfully, threatening to burst. Hermione’s voice was soft at her ear, but urgent in intensity.

“Please, Fleur get up, you must see Dumbledore…”

“Why? Why must I see anyone now?” She groaned in return.

“You said something about Moody and You-Know-Who, and Harry… Harry’s back, he’s out of the maze and he said _he_ is back too!”

Fleur sat up slowly and with the help of her father. Gabrielle was holding her hand and looking up at her with intense worry.

“Yes… Moody attacked me after the skrewt was dead... he’d called Voldemort the Dark Lord…”

“Jesus, he’s one of them!” Hermione exclaimed, making the Veela’s head pound even more. “We have to go Fleur, now!” She tugged the blonde up and urged her to quicken her pace, which she eventually did after her bearings half-way returned to her.

“Dumbledore!” Hermione shouted, nearly crashing into the headmaster, who was deep in conversation with an official. “Moody’s a Death Eater! He attacked Fleur in the maze! You must get him, Dumbledore, you must turn him in! I saw him take Harry!”

With calm eyes, he turned to the blonde, and asked her to recount the events. When she’d finished, the old wizard set a pace for Moody’s office, telling the two girls to refrain from telling too much detail of unfolding events and to go to the hospital wing. They obeyed readily, and as Pomfrey continued to treat Fleur, and the other Champions there, negated the questions that waited for them.

For hours, Hermione refused to leave the Veela’s side. Even when her family drew near, she gave up her seat, but always kept the blonde in sight. Her mother smiled knowingly, and beckoned her, placing Fleur’s hand in her own. The quarter-Veela was exhausted, and had been given a strong tonic to put her in a deep sleep. The Gryffindor watched her carefully, taking great care to sit on the bed without jostling the other witch. She held her hand in both of hers, finding the pulse thrumming there to be a great comfort. The little group talked quietly, Apoline murmured softly to Hermione, about all the things Fleur had told her. The younger witch blushed darkly, whispering back to the half-Veela.

Fleur began to mutter in her sleep, her voice addled and soft. Hermione leaned forward, smiling when she heard her own name falling from the other’s lips. In gentle tones, whispered beside Fleur’s ear, she coaxed the Veela into sleep again, stroking her cheek with the back of her hand. For a moment, she had forgotten about the others in the room, and pressed a soft kiss to the blonde’s forehead, continuing her soft murmurs.

Fleur’s mother sniffled softly, and took Gabrielle’s hand in her own. “Come on, loves, she’s well taken care of,” She whispered, and ushered her youngest from the wing. André milled around a moment longer, patting Hermione’s back gently, thanking her for caring so much about his daughter. Hermione managed a small, embarrassed smile, and with a kiss to Fleur’s cheek, he took his leave and followed his wife. After he left, the Gryffindor squirmed her way beneath Fleur’s blankets, snuggling into her side with a deep sigh. Even as she slept, her gentle hold on the Veela’s hand never lessened.


	15. End of Term and New Beginnings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! I don't really have much to warn on this one, and I'm on a limited spell of time. Thank you all to everyone who's dropped by, I hope you enjoy this one!  
> Much love,  
> RC

The group had settled together in silence in the Great Hall. Black drapes had taken place of the House colors in honor and remembrance of Cedric. Harry had withdrawn into solitude as of late and understandably so. It was an unspoken agreement between the four to speak nothing of the events that had so recently occurred; the memories were so fresh that words were not needed to amplify them.

Dumbledore stood and gave his end-of-term speech, again highlighting the fact that brotherhood and cooperation between witches and wizards of all races were a dire necessity in the coming months. He raised his glass in honor of Cedric, and each and every glass in the Hall responded in kind. Fleur bowed her head silently before she drank to his memory.

                

* * *

 

Hermione’s trunk was packed and rested in the floor by her bed. Again she found herself in tears against the blonde’s chest, cursing herself for being so weak. If it hadn’t been for the Veela’s strong arms so tightly around her, she would have fallen to pieces, she was sure.

“Come now, dearest…” Fleur whispered. “All will be well, I promise. I’ll invite Harry to my family’s house. Let him rest for as long as he wishes. Show him the beauty of wine perhaps?” Despite herself, Hermione chuckled weakly. “He’ll be free to go as he cares. I’ll show him our land and our horses, and after that, he can do as he chooses. And so can you, even Ronald, no doubt. Everyone needs a long, relaxing summer.”

“I’ll need to see my parents first.” Hermione murmured. “Explain everything to them. Introduce you, tell them about us. It’s just so surreal. He’s back, the heartless, soulless, confounded piece of rotten flesh is _back_ and no one believes he is.”

The Veela sighed heavily beneath her cheek. “They will come to know soon enough, I’m afraid. If Fudge knows what’s good for him, he’ll take Dumbledore’s advice. But, we’ll be safe at my parents’ home. Years of Veela and wizard magic have kept the land safe for years. I can even take you to my grandmother’s and see Shamin, now that you’ve accepted.”

“We haven’t… _finished_ the ritual, so to speak.”

“Doesn’t matter,” the Veela piped cheerfully, tapping her on the nose. “You’re now magically affiliated with the Veela _and_ you’re female, as far as I know,” Fleur received a sharp elbow for her comment, but the two only chuckled. “That gives you passage into the village and into rites.”

Hermione considered this. “You did say something about the Summer Solstice before the Second Task…”

The blonde murmured in agreement. “I did. You wanted to see, yes?”

Hermione nodded, wiping away the last of her tears. With a great sigh, she heaved herself into a sitting position and looked into the blonde’s eyes. “As soon as your exams are over, please owl me. I want to see you that day, understand?”

Fleur nodded, tapping her index finger against the Gryffindor’s nose once. “I’ll do what I can; but please don’t be too upset when I leave… it’s only for a little while, then we can spend all summer together.”

“What about next year?”

“We’ll figure it out then. No use in fretting over it now.”

Crookshanks, attuned to his mistress’s sadness, leaped on the bed and purred loudly, nuzzling against Hermione’s cheek.

“See? Even he doesn’t want you to be upset.”

“And how are you so calm throughout all this?” Hermione asked, sniffling.

Fleur hesitated and drew a breath. “I’m not sure. Optimism I suppose.”

The Gryffindor kissed the blonde firmly on the lips, allowing the kiss to melt into a more sensual, intimate kiss. Fleur gently ran her tongue over Hermione’s lower lip and was allowed entrance. Neither fought for dominance, but relished the heat of each other and spent several minutes memorizing the feel and taste of one another.

Fleur broke the kiss, not stopping for air, but to press another to the brunette’s temple sadly. “Come now, love. I have to go.”

As they walked, they remembered various things about the castle, and what they shared together within its walls. The memory of Hermione’s confusion and lust when they’d parted at the foot of the staircase, the butterflies that swarmed in Fleur’s stomach before the Yule Ball, the countless nights the two had spent sneaking either into the castle or out of it to get to the carriage.

 As Fleur held the Gryffindor in her arms tightly outside the castle, she pressed kisses to every inch of her face she could reach, in desperate attempt to memorize exactly how warm her skin felt against her lips. With a sigh, she chastised her past-self. _If only I had known it would be so hard, I wouldn’t have held her so loosely!_ Sorrow clenched her heart; she’d held Hermione as tightly as her arms could allow, after she’d been released from the hospital wing, but now it seemed like it had been a feeble embrace. Finally, she pulled away, smiling sadly, her eyes forming tears.

“Just wait, ma belle, in a few weeks I’ll come to see you, I promise. It will fly by, you’ll ‘ardly notice I’m not there,  and zen, when I do come, you can introduce me to your parents, and they’ll love me, I ‘ope, and…” Her accent found its way back into her voice until she was blabbering on in French. Hermione lifted a finger to halt the flow of words she couldn’t understand. It was then, she realized, that the flood of words had been the only thing holding back her tears, as her eyes filled with them the longer she remained silent. Unable to see the first one fall, Hermione closed her eyes, rose to her tip-toes, and kissed the Veela gently. Within moments, she felt hot tears meet her cheek as Fleur’s dam broke, not flooding as her words had, but slow, assaulting tears.

“Just a few weeks, and you’ll be back.” Hermione assured her, wiping away her own tears that mingled with Fleur’s. “You said you were calm.” She said chuckling weakly.

“I lied.” The reply was punctuated by a sniffle. “It’ll be so strange not to be here, not to see you… It feels like leaving home all over again, except this time, I have something I didn’t have before, something worth more…”

Hermione slapped her arm gently, trying to smile. “Please, Fleur. Go. Study and keep your mind off me. And write. Write as often as you can.” The Veela nodded. She broke away from her dearest to embrace Harry, and Ginny, and Ron. She extended the same invitation to them as she had Hermione, a promise of peace and beach and horses.

For the final time, she held the Gryffindor. She kissed her hair and memorized the scent. With a shy smile, she pressed a box into the girl’s pocket. “Open it when you get on the train,”

Hermione pulled back, shocked. “But, Fleur, I don’t have anything for you—” Her worries were halted by another long kiss.

“You’ve already given me far too much,” Fleur held her tightly, tucking her nose into the thick tresses of auburn locks, taking a last breath of her scent. “Besides, I’ve stolen your favorite jumper. I think we’re even,” She chuckled, despite herself. Hermione didn’t mind in the least, for she had stolen Fleur’s. Gabrielle had arrived, and having already wished the others goodbye, now tugged at her sister’s hand. 

“Good bye, Hermione. I’ll see you soon.” A final kiss, and she was gone, a single diamond tear ran down her cheek as she turned. Hermione clutched her hands together, her body suddenly cold after the Veela had left. She watched the enormous winged horses take flight, the large carriage fighting gravity. Hermione sighed and hugged Harry tightly, squeezing her arms around him, crying silently into his shoulder.

Later, on the train, Hermione took out the box Fleur had given her. It was wrapped in gold paper, a small, red bow tied on top. She pulled a strand, and bow unraveled. Carefully, she unwrapped the box and lifted the lid. On a simple gold chain, a single feather hung. It was a phoenix feather by the looks of it, and was elegantly carved into the gold. Though it was not large, it was sure to attract attention by the amount of light it reflected. Beneath the necklace, a note rested, Hermione’s name written across the front in Fleur’s elegant hand. With fresh tears in her eyes, she lifted a jar containing a beetle.

“We’ll read this together, and maybe then you can write something truthful about Fleur and me.” Hermione unfolded the note carefully, half afraid of what it said, knowing Fleur’s sense of humor, but read it softly aloud nonetheless before she turned and cried against Harry again.

_For my lioness,_

_Had I said this earlier, we never would have broken our embrace._

_I love you._

_* * *_

Several weeks later, Hermione paced excitedly up and down her hallway. Fleur was to be expected at any moment now, and the Gryffindor could hardly wait any longer.

“When will she be here, love?” Her father asked from his seat in the recliner in the living room.

“Any moment, dad; I hope you like her…” the second half was whispered to herself.

“You say something else?”

“Nothing, dad,” Her mother bustled into the room, a plate of cookies in her hand.

“Come, Hermione, sit, you’re making _me_ anxious,” her mother laughed. How she’d missed that sound, and how odd it was that she just now remembered missing it. With a smile, she obeyed her mother’s request, but no sooner than she sat, her foot began tapping at the floor.

When she’d taken a single bite from a second cookie, a knock sounded from the door. She sprang up and rushed to answer. When the door opened, the Veela stood with a wide smile across her face.

Hermione launched herself into her arms, laughing excitedly as Fleur spun around in place with the girl tight in her arms. She covered her face in quick kisses, unable to control herself before finally setting Hermione down on the ground. They did not release one another, but stood, their arms forming tight bonds around themselves, breathing in the scents that had faded from the stolen jumpers. Fleur buried her nose in Hermione’s hair, and Hermione buried her face in Fleur’s neck, each pressing kisses against the other.

“Come inside, please!” Hermione urged, finally breaking away, taking her hand and tugging her inside. She introduced the French witch and her mother embraced her warmly, telling her how much Hermione had already told them. Fleur blushed darkly, but managed to speak without her voice shaking too terribly much.

Throughout the small conversation, Hermione found she couldn’t keep her eyes off the Veela, nor could the Veela avert her own eyes. When she caught a glance of the golden necklace round Hermione’s neck, her eyes darkened in remembrance and a broad smile lit her features.

Fleur told them about France, and Beauxbaton’s, and the small adventures she and Hermione had encountered at Hogwarts, she even demonstrated her magic by reviving a vase of flowers Mrs. Granger was about to throw out (they were even more pleased when this demonstration didn’t result in a power outage, as Hermione’s had accidently caused before). She told them of her heritage, and though she didn’t expect them to understand, politely answered questions they had concerning the topic.

“So, you can turn into a bird…?” Mr. Granger asked quizzically.

Fleur laughed and waved her hand. “Oh no, not me, but my grandmother can; she’s a full-blooded Veela. The closest I’ve ever gotten to the Veela form is what Hermione’s seen already. My eyes change so that my pupils become elliptical, new canine teeth grow rapidly and push out the old ones, and my nails grow incredibly quickly. They don’t become talons, of course, but they do get rather long.”

Mr. Granger sat up excitedly. “Now there’s something I know about! Teeth! Mind if I take a look?” Hermione blushed darkly, not at all surprised at her father’s excitement, but terribly embarrassed all the same

“Not at all,” Fleur replied with a chuckle, tilting her head and opening her mouth. Mr. Granger studied her canines closely.

“I see, they’re much sharper than I normally deal with… you said you get new ones each time?”

“I do. Then, they too fall out and are replaced. If they stayed, I’d have fangs all the time.” Fleur chuckled, and much to her relief, was joined by Mr. Granger.

“Mum, dad,” Hermione spoke up nervously. She hated to do it now, but she thought she might as well while her parents were in good spirits. “There’s something else we need to tell you.”

“What is it, dear?” Her mother asked, turning her attention solely on her daughter. Fleur sighed, and moved closer to Hermione, yearning to take her hand.

“You see, there’s something else that’s special about the Veela.” Her voice had lowered in pitch and wavered slightly. “Something everyone has, but the Veela are more aware of it. Veela take one mate; and one mate alone. And, Fleur has found hers. More importantly, she’s found me.” Hermione had the speech rehearsed, the words written on the back of her eyelids as she blinked.

She chose the silent moment that followed to take the Veela’s hand in her own, glancing between her parents. “Of course, there are other special things about the Veela. Their mates can choose whether or not to accept the partnership. If they choose not to, they can live on and find other mates, but the Veela never will. If they accept it, consummate it, and then renounce it, the Veela dies. But most importantly, I’ve already accepted her partnership. We haven’t… _finished_ the seal, but she spent all school year with me, and I’ve never had a dearer friend. She’s made me laugh so hard I cried, she helped me study and held me through nightmares, and… I’ve made the right decision. She loves me. I know we’re young but her species has been right for centuries. No one can offer me more than she.”

Her mother’s eyes held tears, but Hermione wasn’t quite finished yet.

“What I ask of you is to accept her as mine and me as hers. I don’t expect you to be understanding, but please. I love her, and she’s going to remain in my life.” Fleur looked up at Hermione, who looked at her father.

“I don’t know what to say…” Her father whispered.

“What she said is true.” Fleur spoke up. “More than my Veela heritage, I love your daughter because it is my pleasure, my privilege and my honor to,” she broke her eyes from Hermione and settled them on Mr. Granger. “If I were just as human as she, my heart would still be hers, or at the very least long to be.” The Veela’s eyes connected with his fearlessly.

“She’s always been sure of herself…” Mrs. Granger whispered. “When we got that letter, when the headmaster came here, she wasn’t scared. She threw herself into it and loved every moment. We can’t pretend to understand your world, or the things within it… And look at the way they gaze at each other, Thomas… You can’t say you haven’t worn the same expression.” There was a smile in Mrs. Granger’s voice now.

Thomas rumbled from his chair. “I see it, Jean, I see. Come here, you lot.” He rose and plucked both girls from their seats, crushing them in his arms with love. Hermione’s mother joined the group hug and tears rolled freely from the Veela’s eyes. She’d come expecting the absolute worst, and was lightheaded with relief as she was accepted so easily.

“Can she still stay, after all this?” Hermione murmured.

“Of course, darling, just promise me you won’t…” as Jean searched for words understanding dawned on Hermione.

“Of course not! We weren’t planning on anything in the like for a long time, right Fleur?” Hermione rushed, relieved and embarrassed. Fleur nodded in agreement.

“Oh good, nothing but respect, Fleur, but I am a mother…”

“I understand, Mrs. Granger. I would probably react similarly.” She sniffled, wiping at her eyes, and as a result, was pulled in for another hug by Jean.

“Thank you both for being honest…” she murmured. “That means everything to me, it really does.” She pulled away from Fleur for a moment and plucked a tissue from the box on the coffee table, offering it to the Veela. She took it gratefully, embarrassed by her tears.

Jean patted her cheek with a smiled, her eyes bright and filled with happiness. Her stare was the mirror-twin of Hermione’s; to be the focus of such a powerful intellect felt both strange and familiar, as she’d become accustomed of the same intensity of Hermione’s studying gaze. Jean was the kind of person who held the natural-born ability to see though any and all pretenses, and apparently saw none in Fleur. The Veela was given another hug, this time from Thomas, who also held intelligence in his eyes, but it was softer than Jean’s had been and resided in kind brown eyes instead of hazel.

The two were sent to bed shortly after, and giddily so. Once the door has closed, the Gryffindor threw the Veela to her bed and took her time in welcoming her back. Hermione allowed herself to be freer than she ever had allowed before.

Fleur responded with a surprised gasp that was cut off by Hermione’s lips, and without preamble, her tongue. The Veela was helpless under her as Hermione took what she wished and claimed Fleur as hers. Sensations rolled over skin and rushed down her spine as she felt waves of intensity rear within her. She whimpered as Hermione’s teeth found her shoulder, bruising her, marking her as taken.

With a growl, the Veela rolled the two over, taking her turn to surprise the brunette with her strength. She too found delicious triggers over the lioness’s body, allowing her nails to scrape over her skin as she gave back the torture she’d been given. When Hermione’s shoulder bore an impressive bruise as well, Fleur crushed the girl to her chest and sighed heavily, passion and urgency stated for the moment.

“I missed you.” She said simply.

Hermione laughed and nuzzled back against her. “I can tell.” Several silent moments passed between them before Hermione drew another breath to speak. “Fleur?”

“Yes?”

“I… I love you.”

The Veela held her tighter. “I love you, too.” A kiss was pressed to Hermione’s forehead. She settled into Fleur’s side, reveling in the warmth of the blonde, the warmth she’d grown so accustomed to and had missed so dearly.

“Thank you for the necklace,” Hermione murmured. “It certainly wasn’t necessary.”

“I bought it for you when we took our first trip into Hogsmeade together. I had wanted to save it for a special occasion, but it seemed to be a nice parting gift.” Hermione nodded her agreement. “So you’re named after your mother?” She asked suddenly.

“Grandmother, actually. Mum’s name is Elizabeth Jean. Her mother died a few days after birth, some kind of complication, I’m not certain of the nature. Mum’s never fancied Elizabeth, though,” she whispered with a chuckle. “Anyway, they named me after her, just to give me part of the grandmother I never knew.” Her voice was soft now, thoughtful.

“I’m sorry, Hermione,” Fleur whispered, cuddling her closer.

The other witch shrugged. “I’m fine, really. No memories to miss her by, though I would like to have known her. From what they’ve told me, she was quite the character. We have loads of photo albums if you’d like to take a look.” She said, getting out of bed and retrieving the album. For hours, the two sat, and by the light of Fleur’s wand, studied the photographs, so unlike the ones the French witch was accustomed to. Stories were given, relatives were pointed out, family pets remembered, all the fond memories Hermione’s family held dearest sandwiched between two embroidered covers. When their eyes grew heavy and their jaws ached from yawns, it was with great reluctance to close the album and set it aside for tomorrow’s continued exploration.

The two slept more soundly than they had in weeks, as Fleur’s exams had been a little more complicated than she had thought.  When morning broke, it was to dawn’s light and birdsong, and after the two had lazed in bed for several hours, Hermione bustled happily around the kitchen, pleased to cook breakfast.

“What smells so good in here?” Thomas asked sleepily, limping into the room.

“Morning, Dad,” Hermione called. “Coffee’s ready, and the toast nearly finished too.”

Thomas was a large man, tall in height and rather round in width, the size normally seen in a forty-five-year-old man. He had settled himself at the table with a cup of coffee for himself and one ready for his wife. Yawning widely, he rubbed his knee through flannel pajamas, explaining to Fleur of an injury that had occurred years ago.

Jean was the last to arrive in the kitchen, wrapped tight in a satin robe. She wished everyone good morning, and gave them each a kiss on the cheek before thanking her husband and setting about doctoring her coffee with cream and sugar. Unlike Thomas, Jean was slim and graceful, flitting round the kitchen in near tune with her daughter before settling herself along with the stack of French toast.  

The small group was happy to indulge in conversation, mostly pertaining to the pervious school year and the adventures the two young witches had shared together throughout the term. The Veela was happy to answer the occasional question of her heritage and customs, pleased at the enthusiasm and curiosity of the Grangers, telling them of her parent’s careers, and the small things they hadn’t expected about them, such as the existence of a telephone in their house (the Veela exchanged numbers with them in the event they needed to contact one another).  

“Have you seen your parents, since you’ve been out of school?” Jean asked.

“I have; I stayed with them the night I graduated. The next morning, my mother Apparated, or teleported, as you may say, to a town a short walk from here. Hermione had given me the address before we parted, so it wasn’t hard to find.”

“What do you plan on doing now that you’re out of school?” Thomas asked, leaning forward with interest.

Fleur sighed heavily and looked away as she thought. “I haven’t really considered anything yet. I come from a wealthy family, and job offers started pouring in before I had even left Beauxbaton’s, but my family and I believe it’s best to start off with something small, something anyone fresh out of school would be eligible for, just to understand how hard life can be and things one learns along the way. I would like to go to University one day, but I think I fancy the idea of dabbling in various field first.”

Thomas nodded with approval and Jean patted Fleur’s arm encouragingly.

“When do you plan on returning home?” Jean asked.

“Whenever Hermione wants. My family is excited to meet her, and the Veela always have a celebration for the Summer Solstice; she’s more than welcome to come along.”

Thomas raised his eyebrows. “Celebration, eh? What kind?”

“It’s a rather long story, but the Veela come from sirens, and obviously have evolved since, but we always remember the people from whence we came. We celebrate by returning to the waters of our ancestors by means of a special tonic, which allows us to go back to a pre-evolved form and breathe underwater.”

“And what will Hermione be doing while all this is going on?” Jean asked skeptically.

“She’ll be with us. The tonic works for any person who is of siren descent or affiliated with them, which includes mates, so long as the partnership was accepted.”

They nodded with raised eyebrows. “She’ll be safe?”

“Of course, she’ll be with me,” Fleur smiled happily. The happy, casual chitchat continued for an hour’s duration, until Mrs. Granger suggested that Hermione pack her bags.

“But why? I hadn’t planned on going anywhere.”

“The poor girl’s mother has only seen her once since she left school! Go on with her, I’m sure she’s aching to see you too.”

 

“There’s another surprise waiting at home.” Fleur spoke up as she helped the lioness pack.

“Oh really? What kind of surprise?”

“A pleasant one,” the Veela replied, a playful glint in her eye.

Hermione pursed her lips, squaring the blonde in her sight. “Are you going to tell me?”

“No, you’ll have to see. Is there a proper place to Apparate near here?”

Hermione narrowed her eyes at the deliberate subject-change, but explained that the backyard shed would be fine. Fleur looked far too pleased with herself as Hermione tried to wriggle answers from her, but she refused to break. Within a few hours, the girls were ready, and saying their goodbyes to the Grangers.

Another group hug was mandated and lasted for several minutes, and invitations to visit again were given. The two carried their things into the garden shed, safe from the eyes of peering neighbors, and with detailed instruction of what _not_ to do, Fleur took Hermione’s hand and Apparated to her home.

 


	16. Surprise!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello world! This update is several days later than I wished. My Microsoft Office decided it would uninstall itself, so I've been unable to do anything with Dusk until today when a very kind Microsoft representative helped me through the problem and managed to save all the data I could have lost. Thank the gods for her. Anyway, you get your surprise now! I hope you like it, I rather enjoyed writing this chapter, and I hope you enjoy reading it. Have at it, you've waited long enough!  
> Much love,  
> RC

When the pair had arrived, and Hermione regained her bearings, the blonde was taken into the tight embrace of her mother. When the two parted, Hermione was given a hug as well, while Fleur removed her shoes and her outer shirt so she wore only a tank top and jeans.

“This is your house, Fleur?” Hermione asked when she had been released, studying her surroundings. They stood in a small living room that was minimally furnished and seemed as though it were hardly used.

“Not exactly…”

“Fleur, you didn’t tell her?” Apolline chastised her daughter. “Ah, the ‘huge surprise.’” She mocked, lifting an eyebrow at the Gryffindor. “You’re in for a big one, dear.”

“What’s going on, Fleur?”

“Come on, let’s go outside. It’s easier if you just see it.”

Hermione studied the Veela carefully, but followed her outside nonetheless. The summer sun blazed down on them happily, bright rays blinding them as their eyes struggled to adjust against them. When Hermione looked back at the house she left, she was stunned by what she saw. Sun-bleached exterior rose up to a thatched roof, a precautious chimney of stone was built to rise safely from the house, a great deal of mortar guarded the thatch from the heat of passing smoke. When she was pulled from her study, she saw that the Veela was pulling her in the direction of a patient chestnut-brown horse. Fleur mounted the animal easily, looking at home in the saddle and expectantly at Hermione.

“Um, Fleur…”

“You’ve never done this before.” The Veela chuckled and beckoned her nearer. “Put your left foot in there.” She gestured to the stirrup. “Hold onto this with one hand,” She said, placing Hermione’s hand on the front of the saddle, the horse’s mane brushing her fingers. “Jump, and try to throw your other leg over. I’ll help pull you up.” After several attempts, the Gryffindor finally mastered her momentum and sat behind Fleur, who chuckled and commented that the horse had seen worse riders. The saddle, built for two riders, had apparently been donned for the sole benefit for the lioness, for there were no reigns.

“Why don’t you have a bridle?” She asked, trying to find a firm hold, and settled for the sides of the saddle as Fleur gently spurred the horse into motion.

“We’ve trained our horses to respond by the movements and positioning of our feet, so our hands are free to cast spells or fire arrows. The American West used to call it ‘cutting,’ and they used the method to herd cattle.” To demonstrate, she pressed the sole of her left foot into the horse’s side, just behind her left shoulder. True to her word, the animal changed direction, heading left. When Fleur removed the pressure, and applied it to the other side, she corrected her direction so that they were headed on their original path.

Ambling along at an ‘unbearably slow’ pace, the two began the journey to gods know where. With the understood risk of a livid Hermione, the Veela showed her the correct positioning for her hands over her stomach, and nudged the horse into a trot, of which the Gryffindor found uncomfortable and quite nerve-wracking, annoyed at Fleur’s laughter when she’d tightened her hold about her waist. Another nudge sent the animal into a canter, which she found strangely more comfortable and easy, although her muscles were protesting and she was still quite upset that the Veela had control to stop her torture. A final nudge, and the animal galloped, every muscle powerful and strong beneath them. She could hardly tell they were running at all, so smooth was this movement. Her anger evaporated entirely, and she was lost in wind. Fleur’s hair lifted, and she released a loud cry of joy, weaving her fingers through the other’s.

Hermione soon found herself joining in with her own laughter, her body beginning to fall into rhythm with the mare. She rocked easily, aware of each footfall, but hardly jostled by them. With her arms wrapped snuggly round Fleur, the Gryffindor learned to synchronize with the animal, and pressed against the Veela’s back, the wind combing through her hair, she felt safe and secure. The forest thickened, but a well-beaten path, trod by foot and hoof alike, wound through the trees, easily navigated by the Veela and her mount. Trees and leaves blurred by, Hermione’s eyes watered against the assaulting wind, but she’d never seen anything more clearly. Her vision seemed to sharpen, patterns of leaves and seemingly repetitive collages of tree bark swelling into her perception with surprising clarity and depth despite her distance from them. Her heart thundered in its cage, longing to soar as her spirit did so freely.

They covered a large span of earth quickly, and after a quarter of an hour, they slowed, the mare drawing quick breaths even as she pranced about, apparently unsatisfied with her run. Fleur slid gracefully from her back, assisting Hermione down. For several long moments, she comforted the animal, stroking the white blaze that ran down her nose, murmuring softly to her. The mare snorted, still prancing about slightly, but seemed content for the moment.

“She won’t leave. She always gets antsy after she’s started running, it’s the thoroughbred in her. High-strung horses, but magnificent to ride.” The Veela said, seeing Hermione’s questioning look as she walked away from the mare, leaving her untethered to graze.

“Wow, that was… that was incredible, Fleur,” Hermione murmured, still winded.

Fleur looked a little breathless too, but her eyes were bright and alive with vigor. “So you’re not angry with me?” she asked, mischief lacing her voice as she sauntered nearer, settling her hands on the Gryffindor’s hips.

“No,” the lioness returned, chuckling and slapping at her arm playfully. “But I should be. My legs will kill me tomorrow,”

“Oh, they will. But you’ll get used to it as the summer goes on. I’ve missed riding, and I do not intend on skipping out on it this holiday,” she said with a smirk.

Hermione rolled her eyes and wiped away the last of her tears the wind had generated. “Where are we?”

“Close to the surprise now, dearest.” Fleur replied, starting off into another part of the wood. Hermione followed readily, and after a short walk, they came upon a clearing. Nestled in the clearing, a ridge of black spines rose against the surrounding trees. Hermione nearly ran forward, but Fleur caught her arm, and shook her head once. Instead, she looked back at the Horntail and called his name. Golden eyes turned to her, and from around him, eight baby dragons toppled over one another to see what the noise was.

Hermione’s hand rose to cover her mouth, nearly laughing as they stumbled over paws that were too large, their legs hardly sturdy enough to support the massive weight of their heads. The young stayed close to their father, studying the newcomers with enormous golden eyes. The largest of them strode proudly forward after a moment or two, and growled at them. Shamin rumbled from behind the hatchling, which was returned with an almost apologetic duck of the head.

Fleur stepped up to the Horntail, touching his scales gently. “Come on, love. He wants you to meet his young.” Hermione approached eagerly, sitting on the ground beside Fleur after greeting Shamin, who returned with a friendly nudge of the nose. After seeing their father’s easy acceptance of them and upon recognizing Fleur, the eight babies crowded around them, looking up into their strange new faces through huge eyes. Their heads seemed to be too big and heavy and severely unproportional to the rest of their bodies as they stumbled around, finding and losing balance time and again. Several discovered their wings and took to flapping erratically about, eventually all eight were beating their tiny wings and squawking loudly, trying to growl properly. They tumbled over each other in play, and soon exhausted themselves, pausing for a short break. The one that had growled at them before now clambered into Hermione’s lap, and the others followed suit, desperate for some sort of attention.

“Surprise,” Fleur murmured when the young had finally quieted, stroking them lovingly.

“Fleur, this is amazing! You’re a mum now!”

The Veela chuckled, leaning forward to capture the Gryffindor’s lips. “I wouldn’t go that far, love. Shamin is raising them here by himself, free to go wherever he pleases, so long as he leaves the horses alone.” She looked at the dragon with a stern eye, as though they had already had the discussion. Her look was returned by a grumble and sigh.

Hermione laughed happily. “How old are they?”

“Around four weeks. Soon, their feet and heads will be the proper sizes for their bodies, even though the way they are now is rather cute.”

“That’s a shame…we should take some pictures the next time we come here, remember the little devils...”

For hours, the two sat together in the company of the dragons, laughing and chatting and living for the moment rather than the morrow. They lay on their backs, staring up at the sky, and became the prey of the babies several times as they were jumped upon and play was invited. Finally, the little dragons settled by their father and fell asleep under his eye, freeing the two to talk without distraction.

“Have you heard from Harry?” Fleur asked, stroking Hermione’s hand.

“Yes, but he hasn’t been writing much. With the Tournament and all, it’s a lot to get over, but when he does write, he asks questions I can’t answer with the risk of inception as high as they are. I know he’s growing sick of it, but we can’t risk letting anything happen to him…” She trailed off sadly and regretfully. “You seem to be doing well.”

The Veela sighed heavily and looked away. “The second coming of Voldemort has long been expected by the Veela.” At the mention of the Dark Lord’s name, Hermione nearly winced but held her composure. “We’ve taken the necessary precautions, years ago in fact, and those precautions have been reinforced and built upon since. The three of you all deserve a good summer. I hope I can assist with that, if I may. Try not to think while you’re here, or at my parent’s home; I assure you we’ll be safe.”

“But he has knowledge of so much magic…”

“Not Veela magic, dear; not something so old or so evolved as that. He knows light and dark, but not Veela, and surely you know that if one doesn’t know something, they cannot combat it.”

“You’re so proud of the Veela, Fleur. How could anyone possibly know what he knows or doesn’t know or if he knows anything about the Veela magic?”

Fleur sighed again and locked eyes with her. “I’ve told you about our culture, Hermione. Unless he’s the mate to a Veela, there’s no chance that he could know anything about our magic. Even if he was a Veela’s mate, I doubt he’d be capable of the love to reciprocate it; that requires a soul and a functional heart.”

“What if he actually is a Veela’s mate? How can you be so sure that she wouldn’t run to him?”

Fleur sighed and searched for words. “A Veela’s first priority is her sisters, even after the recognition. If one had recognized him as a mate, everyone would know, for it is not something one can hide. Then, there would be two options: she would either offer herself up and die for the sake of the lives of her sisters, or run to him, in which case we would follow and kill. Fortunately, the stars have been kind, or perhaps wise, and no one is destined as mate for him.”

“I told Ginny a lot about the Veela culture when I had the book. Does that compromise anything?”

Fleur shrugged. “I doubt she remembers anything of great power. Veela knowledge has a way of removing itself from those who don’t need it. However, the principles of mates is the same for everyone, Muggle, wizard, or Veela. She’ll always have that knowledge and the ability to pass it on, for it is constant throughout species, just not as seriously as with the Veela. But now’s not the time to worry over such things, dear, we’re safe from harm and besides,” she gestured to the dragon. “We have children to look after.” Hermione nodded and let herself fall deeper into the grass. They lay together in silent thought, soaking the sun into their skin and letting the warmth spread though their bodies.The Gryffindor pushed her previous worries from her mind, allowing the sun to soak into her skin and put her heart at ease. 

“This place is perfect,” Hermione murmured without opening her eyes. “It’s so peaceful and quiet. All I hear is the birds and the wind.”

Fleur chuckled beside her. “Ah, yes, that’s what France does, dearest.” The Veela snuggled closer to the Gryffindor, planting kisses along her clavicle. She sighed in contentment at the attention she received, returning kisses to the blonde until their lips met in the middle. This was a different kiss than any other the two had shared so far. This kiss was slow and uninterrupted by thought, sound, or movement, but allowed to build and grow. It was far from insistent, but hardly shy either, as once again they lost themselves within one another. This kiss was slow but very deep, Fleur’s long fingers tangled in Hermione’s dark hair, while the Gryffindor’s hand cupped the other’s cheek, smiling into the kiss. When they pulled apart, Hermione kept her eyes closed and her smile broadened when Fleur ran her nose over her own. 

They lay in the cool grass, wrapped in each other’s arms. The wind whispered softly to them through the surrounding trees, cool on their faces against the warmth of the sun. Presently, a jolt went through the Veela’s body as a soft weight had landed on her side. The female that had taken to Hermione minutes after growling a warning, climbed back to the Gryffindor, almost purring as she did. Hermione laughed and stroked the smooth scales from head to tail, carefully over the small spines along her back.

Shamin rumbled from the short distance away, Fleur reassuring him softly. The great, black dragon rose into flight and soared away, his young left frightened and abandoned, flapping desperately to stay with him. Upon failing, they ran to the two witches who comforted them lovingly, explaining that he had gone hunting and would return soon. They gave no reason to suggest comprehension of their words, but seemed contented that the two had remained with them. Play ensued shortly thereafter, the notion of their father’s absence forgotten. They tumbled together, rolling through the grass and attacked the witches, brandishing teeth and claws gently.

After the sun had started its decent, the shadow of the dragon loomed nearer on the ground. The young ran to greet him as he landed, food ready in his jaws and front talons. He had caught two sizeable mountain goats, one for himself alone, and the other for the young. Fleur rose and stretched her back, helping Hermione up from the ground.

“We should be leaving, it’s getting dark, and they didn’t invite us for dinner,” Regret coated her words, even as she chuckled at her own joke. The two bade farewell to Shamin and the young, Fleur caught Hermione’s hand and began to weave their fingers together. Before she could achieve a hold, the Gryffindor wrenched herself away, running away from the Veela. Fleur stopped, confused, and when the brunette turned back to face her, there was a playful glint in her eye. _Chase me._

The Veela grinned and lowered her shoulders. The lioness turned and ran. Fleur allowed a full five-second head start before taking off after her. She zig-zagged through the trees with grace, leaping over fallen logs and rocks half-submerged in earth. The sound of Hermione’s footfalls were loud in her ears and she knew the exact moment when she had passed her. Turning a hard left, she stepped directly into Hermione’s path, catching her securely and falling to the ground. Hermione panted from where she rested atop her chest, smiling brightly. Fleur pressed a kiss to her cheek as she nuzzled into her neck lovingly.

“I think I win, love.”

Hermione pulled back in surprise and defiance. “I don’t think so, Miss Delacour. If you won, then why am I on top of you?”

“I took the fall so you wouldn’t hurt yourself, and I caught you, you never laid a hand on me.”

The lioness narrowed her eyes; her cheek hollowed as she bit the inside. “We’ll call it a draw.” She declared, getting to her feet again, the Veela following in hot pursuit, ignoring the dull ache in her back and the leaves in her hair.

“That’s hardly fair!” she cried, a smile in her voice. By now, the two had arrived at the path again, the chestnut horse had ambled around grazing where she’d been left. Hermione approached the animal and attempted to mount without help, swatting Fleur’s hands away. Finally she managed, and after the Veela wordlessly expressed her expertise, set off back to the Veela village, this time, Hermione in control of the animal after given instruction, Fleur pressed against her back, planting kisses along her neck, her hands distracting her with patterns drawn over the Gryffindor’s hips and belly.

 

Upon arriving (having traveled at a much slower pace than before), Hermione saw there was a greater number of Veela gathered than there had been earlier. The sun rested on the horizon like a child’s unwilling sleepy eye half-lidded against fatigue, having painted brilliant colors across the sky with its decent as a last attempt of rebellion from sleep. The moon rose full from its opposite, chasing away the masterpiece painted on the sky-canvas and replacing it with the first stars of the night.

Fleur led Hermione back into her grandmother’s house, and dressed in strange, purple scaled clothing. The Gryffindor felt risqué in such garments; the clothes nearly resembled a dress of some sort; it was very stiff and did not allow much movement at all, it ended well above her mid-thigh, and left her back completely exposed from the nape of her neck to the base of her spine, where the halves of the dress met briefly. Her arms were bare without sleeves, seeing as how the ‘dress’ was worn around the chest and quite literally seemed to hold to her ribs, there wasn’t a place to stitch them if one wished.

She knocked hesitantly at the door where, on the other side, Fleur waited. The Veela peeked in when Hermione opened the door for her.

“Why do we need to wear these things? I look hideous.”

Fleur chuckled softly. “You look fine, Hermione, just a little more bare than usual.” She stepped into the room, wearing the same garb as the other. “As far as why, you told me you wanted to see a Veela rite. And tonight’s the solstice. You’ll be taking the Siren’s Tonic, and that why we wear these dresses. When the spines grow out, they tear your clothes.” Hermione looked on the verge of frightened and unconvinced. She was jealous as she studied the blonde in her dress, how she looked comfortable and somehow natural in the strange costume. Fleur’s eyes never moved from the other’s face, politely respecting the secrecy Hermione felt was intruded upon. The Gryffindor wrung her hands together uncertainly.

“And we can’t wear anything else?”

“Not unless you want it to rip apart, which I highly recommend against. It was very unpleasant during the Tournament.” Fleur kissed her forehead gently. “Everyone else is wearing similar or less clothing, and have done so before. It’s ceremonial, no one thinks too much of it. But please don’t be surprised if you see anyone naked, that’s… very likely to happen,”

Hermione’s eyes grew wide for a moment, but upon again shifting uncomfortably in the dress, she understood why some Veelas would rather go without any clothes at all. Fleur led the other to sit, and plaited her hair quietly. After a few minutes, they turned and Hermione braided the blonde hair similarly. As they did, the conversation continued and eventually assured Hermione enough to the point where she’d willingly step outside.

Together, they left the little house barefooted, the earth warm and soft beneath them, and followed the Veelas already on their way to the site of the ceremony; a placid lake of sparkling blue water was surrounded by trees and rocky beginnings of a mountain; the Veela gathered round and anxiously awaited moonrise. A rocky hill overlooked the water, and atop it, several Veela were making last-minute preparations.

As Fleur had warned, there were several women who wore not a stich of clothing on their bodies. But no one seemed to think anything of it; they were comfortable with one another, and didn’t mind in the least in taking this more natural approach to the whole thing. Hermione, for one, was embarrassed beyond any measure. Though she’d seen other women naked, as she’d shared dormitories with them during the school years, nothing compared with the unabashed shamelessness of the Veelas. Every one of them was beautiful but none of them stuck a desire in Hermione, although the thought of what her own quarter-Veela might look like bare did. She flushed darkly and pushed the thoughts away, refusing to linger on them and turned her attention to the part-Veela at her side.

 Fleur had struck up a conversation with a young Veela (thankfully clad in similar clothing as their own), her cousin, named Aella. The girl was slightly older than Fleur, and had a whirlwind of a personality. She excitedly congratulated Fleur and Hermione on their partnership, animatedly chattering about the ritual. Hermione found she rather liked the young Veela, whose hair was short and light brown as opposed to the long blonde tresses of the Delacours.

“Have you seen Grand-mère?” Fleur asked casually. Most, if not all, of the village had gathered at the lake’s bank, talking amongst one another as they waited for the moon.

“The chief’s setting things up in the water,” she explained.

Hermione’s eyes widened. “Your grandmother’s in charge?”

“Of course. She’s the eldest Veela of the village and next in line of the tribe.” The Gryffindor nodded in thought, and was drawn from it when Aella nudged her with an elbow.

“You’re marrying into royalty every which way, aren’t you?” She chuckled softly.

Hermione smiled back politely, and Fleur rolled her eyes. “We’ve hardly discussed the second acceptance, Aella, let alone marriage.”

The other Veela chuckled again and was invited to another conversation. Fleur began introducing who was who among the crowd, and explaining how they were all interrelated by aunts and cousins.

“Alright, line up everyone, we’re getting it started now!” A voice called. A tall, raven-haired Veela stood at the crest of the hill overlooking the lake, a table beside her. The Veela lined up together, stretching down the hill and around a curve of the lake.

“Now, when you hit the water, your body will begin changing. Whatever you do, do not go break the surface, or you’ll have to take it again. In fact, I would keep swimming deeper. It’ll feel… uncomfortable, at first, changing and breathing and all, but trust me, it’s exhilarating.” Hermione nodded, going over Fleur’s instructions in her head. When they reached crest, Fleur greeted another cousin, the one doling out the tonic and introduced Hermione. With a phial of potion in hand, the quarter-Veela kissed the Gryffindor lovingly before drinking the tonic down and diving into the water below with a loud cry of ecstasy. Bubbles broke the surface, but the blonde Veela did not.

“Come on, human.” A red-haired Veela chided softly with a kind smile. “Your turn now,” Hermione drank the potion nervously, and stood looking down at the water. She took a deep breath and allowed herself to leap off the solid surface beneath her feet and plunged into cold, blue water below. At the very moment her skin came into contact with the water, she felt the tonic take its toll. Her skin formed into scales, her nails lengthened, and her eyes grew a transparent lid. She looked up to see another splash as another Veela joined her in the water and nearly began to swim upwards, but a hand closed around her own tightly.

“Breathe, Hermione,” Fleur said, although she hardly looked like _Fleur_ anymore. The blonde had changed drastically as well, and now sported green scales and gills, her pupils had become silts as they usually did, but the striking blue of her irises confirmed who she was. Hermione had yet to release her breath and was growing lightheaded.

“Please, Hermione, breathe, your body will let you.” She exhaled her air in bubbles and fought to reach the surface. Fleur dragged her back down, and finally, she drew a breath. It passed through her gills easily and without fight or pain, and exited just as naturally. Her heart was pounding in her chest, adrenaline still rushing through her blood. 

“Wow…” she managed, after looking around. Fleur’s earlier warning of what would happen had not been explicit enough; long spines had grown from her back, her nails were longer than she ever remembered them being, webs had formed between her fingers, and paddled water easily. Beneath the water, even in the dark, she could see the floor laid out before her as clear as day. She could see the Veela heading deeper into the depths and little flickers of light from beyond the underwater grasses as they swayed with the currents.

“Come on, dearest, try swimming.” Fleur laughed, enjoying the wonder on the Gryffindor’s face. She looked down at her own body, astounded by what she saw. Instead of two legs, she had one long, powerful tail, bladed just as Fleur as told her so long ago before the Second Task. At first it was difficult, trying to locate her muscles and how to move them, but once she mapped out her body’s new regions she easily propelled herself through the water, happily spiraling around the underwater world holding Fleur’s hand.

They arrived at the site of the ritual, where the chief Veela stood (for lack of a better term) behind a large slab of stone. Before her, a huge pile of rocks had been gathered and glowed with a green hue, providing light. Asteria looked stunningly dangerous in her ancestor’s form; her hands clawed with sharp talons, and her face resembled an eagle rather than fish. Her beak was sharp and deadly, but her voice carried through the water with a friendly timbre. When all the Veela had gathered, about sixty or seventy in number, the ancient siren flicked her hand and the pile of rocks leapt to light, as if on fire. Silence stole over the party as they turned their eyes to Asteria, looking up at her with wonder and pride.

“Tonight is Solstice of Summer, and the night we come to remember our foremothers who bore the races we are today.” She boomed, her voice wavering with the tone of an experienced story-teller. She outstretched her hands, and wordlessly, wandlessly, brought the light from the pile of stones up the surface, displaying shadows and pictures that would accompany her tale.

“Long ago, our race was one of torment and lure. Our people protected the land from seafarers by never allowing them leave from our waters, once they arrived. They fought, believing the strange two-legs carried mischief and war with them on their backs. For years, the females of that race fought the ships that came, bearing misfortune in their hulls, while the males, their voices unfit to lure in prey, kept order at the seafloor.” The wavering blue-green light displayed the words she spoke, showing a large ship being torn to pieces by creatures closely resembling what all the Veela looked like now.

“Even then, our people knew the stars above us declared our mates, but it was unheard of for a siren to mate with a human, and because of this, a great uprising took place. Within one of these ships, a mate resided, and when a young siren laid eyes upon her, she could not allow harm to fall to her wrought from her sisters. She fought her sisters, screaming that the woman aboard the ship was hers and let the love between them flourish, as was intended and demanded by the constellations. The sirens relented and stopped their singing with deathly glares and warnings, threatening the human mate and their sister as well. As the young siren thought of how to pursue and make herself known to her mate, the captain knew the dangers of the waters, and spoke with his men on how best to leave it.

“He arranged with his crew to leave, since the sirens had not yet torn their vessel to pieces, he considered himself lucky. One night, as the human mate stand watching the comets, she heard the voice of the siren. The young siren sang to her, from the bow of the ship, begging her to stay and marry her. The mate was entranced, for she had never heard such a beautiful sound in all her life, and looked over the ship in search of the source.

“She beckoned her down to the water, and against all the myths and legends she’d heard, she listened. When the siren revealed herself to her, it was without song or lure. She had been terrified, but instead of returning to the safety of the ship, trusted the young siren. They sang softly to one another, trading the songs of their heritages and pasts, and the first kiss was given. At this time, once the first kiss had been given and received, there was no further need to consummate the mated pair; as the kiss was enough to bind the siren to their mate, and the two rejoiced, happily lifting their voices in song again. The siren’s sisters, not half so happy beneath the waters, plotted against her, convinced the stars had lied, sure beyond doubt that no mate would ever be human.

“It was without warning or sign when the others attacked. They broke the surface like leeches after blood and fell on the ship and dismembered it, just as they did with the human mate. The young siren fought, but she was easily outnumbered by the others, and watched as they tore her love to pieces. When her blood and the blood of the men aboard the ship clouded the sea, the siren left it, and vowed never to return to the waters. She wished herself to be dead with her love, and lay on the beaches unprotected in the sun. She cursed herself and from her hatred, a new magic was borne from her pain, granted by the stars above her, outraged by the trespass made by her sisters. She lost the scales of her brethren and grew great feathers of their enemies, and stood on the sand wearing the wings of the eagle. She took to flight in her rage and attacked her sisters for killing her chosen, and with the new, powerful magic, she took the voices they used to lure their prey. She killed no one, but disappeared into the forests where she stayed alone for years. Decades passed and the siren mustered the magic again, and took the human form of her intended mate in memory of her loss. She was made beautiful, with long, flowing hair and a strong, fertile body, surely the jealousy of any man or woman.

“But with no mate, she was left alone, until another siren left the waters, in search of her. On her belly, she dragged herself through the forests, where the siren named Veela was rumored to be. She called for her in a robbed voice, her body wearing away from lack of water. For days, she continued her search, returning to the water at dusk to replenish her tired, dehydrated form. Finally, on the eighth day of searching, after watching from the trees, clad in feathers, Veela revealed herself, and gave the other siren a new body of her own, a new voice, and food. The two conversed, more happily than Veela thought she would be to speak to another, and soon learned that the younger siren would never have a mate, as foretold by her stars, and after hearing of the trespass made, now so long ago, no longer wished to remain in the water any longer.

“Together, they lived in the forests, and finally, proposed an idea that had crossed both of their minds, but never uttered. With the combined magic of both sirens, Veela became very pregnant and soon brought the firstborn of a new species into the world. She bore a daughter, and named her Sappho. As their previous family had, the child’s stars foretold many things, and in fear of their offspring, the two sirens had charmed themselves before consummation and pregnancy so that their child would not suffer as her mother had, but rather than live on without their mate after death greeted them, especially after acceptance, to die with them, as Veela remembered the pain of losing her love and wishing to spare her daughter and future generations from such afflictions. The ritual was written into the spells they cast, however new and dangerous it might be, they did so without abandon, passing on the most desirable traits from their previous family on to their young. As the child grew, she too became beautiful like her mothers, and she went out into the world, when her stars told, and found her mate. This mate, as fate had it, was also female, and after careful spell-casting, she too was pregnant with Sappho’s child.

“By this time, Veela had given birth to several children, all females, and each had grown into fine young huntresses. For generations, the children of Veela and those of Sappho mated with other females, until the species respectfully named Veela was secure as well as the charms that had been cast so long ago by their mothers.” The light show given by the sparkling stones dimmed, revealing Asteria before them.

“Since then, of course, we have reconciled with our Mermish cousins as we hold no ill will and only love, but it is on this night when we remember our mothers and the strife they faced to give birth to the species we are today. We remember their pain and sacrifice and we thank them for protecting us even so many years after their deaths.” The Veelas bowed their heads, Hermione following their lead. Everything was silent for several long moments, until a respectful applause broke out around the Veela. Hermione lifted her head and looked at Fleur, who still had a far-away glaze in her eye. The lioness lifted her hand and kissed it gently, disregarding the scales that adorned her skin or the webs that had formed between their fingers. The action broke her trance and a smile lifted the corners of her lips. As strange as this new form was, Fleur still looked beautiful and fearsome, somehow simultaneously.

“What did you think?” Fleur asked, as the other Veelas made their way around the lake.

“It sure did explain a lot… wow.” She took a breath. “That’s how the Veela race started? It’s so… incredibly unfortunate.”

“It’s wasn’t easy for them, in the beginning, but look at us now, with ancient magic and rituals passed down from their sacrifice. I think they would be happy to know how we are now, after what they lived through.”

“Hermione,” Asteria called though the waters. The Gryffindor approached readily, Fleur following her loyally.

“Go and see your cousins, Fleur,” the ancient Veela said softly. “I want to speak with your mate.” Fleur nodded respectfully and took off at an alarming speed through the waters, setting to playing with younger Veelas.

Hermione looked to the chief Veela expectantly, as though she had been caught in mischief.

“Come with me, dear,” Asteria said, beginning to swim to open waters. “There is something I wish to tell you.”

The two continued on for a while in silence, until an acceptable distance had been acquired. “Fleur tells me Voldemort has returned. Don’t shiver, girl, it’s just a name. I know of your previous dealings with such things, and I want to give you insight.” She paused and turned on the young witch. “If you choose to fully accept my granddaughter as a mate, enormous consequences are faced, in the event of certain things. The most worrisome, the death or renouncing of one mate always has and always will result in the death of the other. However,” she paused again, locking eyes again. “Remember, should you come to the terrible necessity or choice, which I fear is drawing very near,” the Veela placed her index finger over Hermione’s lips. “This can lie,” she drew her finger to point to Hermione’s heart. “But this cannot. And that can be the difference between life and death, as complicated and as terrible as it is. Be very sure, and very careful, and do not tell Fleur. This is a very important part of the partnership.” With that, she turned, and swam back to the festivities. Fleur rejoined Hermione a few moments later, when the younger witch neared the group again.

“What was that about?”

Hermione hesitated, unsure of what to tell her dearest, “Just chitchat, really, about the ritual, checking its progression."

Fleur nodded her understanding, taking the Gryffindor’s hand in her own gently. “Well, would you like to get back to the party?” She invited with a smile.

Hermione nodded and swam slowly through the water, exploring the world beneath the surface. Fleur followed happily along behind her, chatting the night away with the Veela and joining their festivities in honor of the First Mother.

 


	17. The Order of the Phoenix

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, guys, this one is fairly long, and I tried to keep the events as cannon as possible. I've had The Order of the Phoenix checked out of my library for about three months now, working on this chapter, as well as Cadence, just to make sure I'm on the right track. How did you all like the babies? I'm dying to know, please shoot me a message (here or on Tumblr) on what you think! Constructive criticism is the best feedback, so if you have any qualms with anything, I'd be happy to look into whatever mistakes I may have made along the way. I hope to hear from you!  
> Much love,   
> RC

Several weeks later, Hermione and Fleur were laughing together, galloping on their horses over the vast expanses of the Delacour estate. The Veela’s long blonde hair flew in the wind, her button-up over-shirt opened to the air as she laughed, paying homage to the sun, both hands lifted to catch the wind. Fleur’s sleek black mare raced effortlessly over the grasses, Hermione, having been assisted by a saddle and reigns, easily kept pace with her as the buckskin gelding she rode kicked up pieces of dirt behind his hooves. They had taken a lunch to the beach, soaked in the afternoon and evening sun and indulged in each other, as was becoming a rather passionate habit. Even now, as they ran with their horses against the fading light, Fleur’s lips were still swollen from the attention given by Hermione’s teeth. They slowed and turned their horses around when the silvery form of André’s Patronus came in the form of a fox, his voice advising them back to the house with great urgency.

They arrived at the back of the Delacour mansion at a trot, and slowed to a stop when a cousin of Fleur’s that had been visiting offered to return the horses to the pasture, for her parents seemed eager to speak with her. Fleur entered the west-facing drawing room hastily, and met her parents in the parlor.

“Fleur, Hermione’s mother called me just minutes ago,” Her father said, as soon as he saw his daughter. “She said that there are several letters from Harry Potter waiting for her, and it seemed urgent; she said the owl was acting very anxious and carried two other letters. I think it’d best if you take her home for the moment, just to be certain everything is alright.”

The two witches agreed, and packed their bags quickly, wishing goodbye to the Delacour household with promises to return soon.

With a loud _CRACK,_ the two witches found themselves in the Granger’s kitchen, and a letter waiting on the table. Hugs were exchanged hastily, and the lioness ripped into the scroll.

_I’ve just been attacked by dementors, and I might be expelled from Hogwarts. I want to know what’s going on and when I’m going to get out of here._

Hermione’s hand lifted up to cover her mouth. Hedwig shifted from foot to foot, anxiously watching her as she set about writing a letter in return.

She pushed the letter to Fleur, who read it twice before writing a letter of her own to her mother. Hedwig pecked insistently at Hermione’s fingers, but finally, after three pages of writing, the Gryffindor tied the scrolls to the owl’s leg, gave her a bit of meat, and ordered her to deliver the letter to Dumbledore. Fleur sent her own letter in a more modern fashion by a tricky fire spell she and her mother used for their family, insuring the letter’s safe travel.

They waited, expressing their worries to one another quietly.

“Why couldn’t he have come with us to my parent’s? He would have had a chance to relax, and not worry about it all…”

“It’s a charm of some kind, Fleur. I don’t know much about it, but if he didn’t have to return to the Dursley’s every summer, it wouldn’t be mandated. It’s the only thing I can think of…”

Fleur rose and set the kettle to boil, as she waited, massaged Hermione’s shoulders lovingly. When it whistled, she kissed her cheek and brewed strong tea for the two of them. They drank in silence and fell asleep with their heads resting on the table.

Hermione woke at dawn to pain shooting through her hands. Hedwig had returned, bearing a letter from Dumbledore. She nudged Fleur awake and read the letter. As promised, at noon that day, Mrs. Weasley arrived at the Granger household, and having known the Grangers for years, was invited to stay for tea. The Weasley matriarch refused politely, saying she must deliver the girls to Harry’s new home for the summer, after having explained at length what had happened to the young wizard. The Grangers, particularly fond of Harry, insisted that they leave at once, hugging each of them goodbye.

They Apparated from the shed as Fleur had, and appeared in an alleyway behind several houses. They hurried around the side of the building, where Mrs. Weasley murmured an incantation of some kind, and from between houses eleven and thirteen, twelve pushed itself into existence.

“Go on now, hurry up, and get inside!” Mrs. Weasley barked. “Mind the portraits, don’t want to wake the missus.” She scoffed.

“What is this place?” Hermione asked upon entering. She nearly gagged when the putrid smell of rot hit her nostrils. Fleur actually retched slightly, as her sense of smell was more sensitive than the others’. The whole hall was dark and gloomy, moldy, almost. It seemed as though the whole house had sat abandoned and neglected for ages and had built up a defense to ward off anyone who entered and attempted a clean-up. Mrs. Weasley had obviously been affected by the odor as well, and set about casting spells when they arrived in a slightly cleaner kitchen, and a freshly-shaven, longhaired man approached.

“Ah, Hermione Granger and Fleur Delacour!” Sirius said happily, gripping them both in hugs. “I must apologize for the terrible state the place is in, no one’s care to look after it in years, and I’m sorry you have to suffer through it.”

“It’ll be good for them, Sirius, a nice summer project,” Molly piped from the adjacent drawing room. “Ron is upstairs getting a room ready for himself and Harry, I suggest the two of you do the same.” She locked eyes with Fleur for a moment in the doorway. “And even though I’m not her mother, there better not be any funny business even crossing your minds, am I clear?”

Fleur nodded, unashamed. “Of course, Mrs. Weasley, I would never dream to do such a thing, and it has already been discussed with Hermione’s mother, who allowed us to share quarters while I visited her at her home.”

Molly nodded, pleased, and instructed them upstairs. “Oh, and keep your voices down, you wouldn’t want to wake anything!”

After carefully treading up the staircase, the two found Ron sweeping dust into a bin. His room was in slightly better shape than what the two had seen of the house thus far, and it looked as though a great deal of effort had been put into returning the room to a state of dust rather than mold. He instantly stopped his work and greeted them both, and having spent most of his summer there, offered to assist them in cleaning out a room of their own. The next door down from the Ron’s led to a wide room, the walls were peeling with green paper, but a large bed occupied the space. Fleur seemed reluctant, but rolled up the sleeves of her Muggle over-shirt and set to scourging the bed and bedclothes to seemingly brand-new. The sheets and duvet were a deep emerald green, after removing the deep layer of dust that had collected on the bed. Another round of powerful spells removed the musty stench from the room that seemed to emit from the bed and walls, and the Veela, whose nose finally allowed her to sit upon the mattress, collapsed on it heavily.

“I haven’t done that before,” she chuckled. “My mother cleans the stables and wine cellars like that, but I can accurately say the barns were much easier to clean than that bed was.” She sat up suddenly and sneezed, apologizing and cursing her allergies before flopping back down again.

“When you’ve rested a bit, would you mind taking care of the smell in mine and Harry’s room? It’s about as bad as this was.”

“Of course, Ron, just a—” another sneeze interrupted her. “Another moment longer,”

The rest of the day wore on in a similar manner, filled with Fleur performing incredibly complex spells her mother had taught her, and soon, the two rooms and the kitchen were livable, if not happily so. They had met with some Order members, discussing nothing about the business itself, but conversed about other things, such as school and family matters. Most of the Weasley family had been brought to Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, and they provided much lighthearted conversation and entertainment.

“Where did your mother find the time to teach you those spells if you turned seventeen while away at school?” Mrs. Weasley asked as they rested for another moment.

Fleur chuckled before answering. “Well, I was underage when she first started teaching me, but I could never practice much, just to keep out from the Ministry’s attention. Before I was born, she explained to the Ministry that there would be times that I would use magic while I was underage, for ‘Veela rites,’ of course, and that the interfering of those rites would bare serious consequences from the Veela hierarchy. So, she took advantage of it, only allowing me to practice with her of course, and with my grandmother being a chief, the Ministry was easily persuaded into turning a blind eye.”

“Sneaky woman, your mother,” Sirius laughed. “I’d like to meet her!” He clapped the young Veela on the back.

“Oh, she’d be happy to, I’m sure, my father, too,” She sighed in irritation as she felt another sneeze approaching, but left her the moment before. “But as far as that boggart in the cupboard, Mrs. Weasley, I’m afraid I cannot assist with, until I learn a few spells at least.”

The red-headed woman stood and pulled her wand. “First things first, dear, we need to take care of that nose.” She flicked her wand, an incredible itching sensation filled the Veela’s nasal cavities, and disappeared with her next exhale. “Alright,” She said with a huff and a wild gesture to Moody, “let’s get that boggart!”

 

Hours passed, and finally they were allowed to retire to their rooms before dinner. The Veela and the two Gryffindors sat in Ron and Harry’s room, where the Weasley family owl, Pigwidgeon, was zooming happily around the room, twittering away. The three were chatting happily about their summers thus far, and the conversation turned to worry over Harry. The dementor attack had deeply frightened them all and Crookshanks had climbed into Hermione’s lap to comfort her with loud purrs. Fleur stroked the ginger tomcat absently, regretting all the time she and Hermione had spent laughing and carefree while Harry lay in miserable ignorance. After sunset, Mrs. Weasley brought a pale, half-starved Harry Potter to the doorway of the occupied bedroom. Hermione leapt up and threw herself at him for a crushing hug, blubbering over how sorry she was, and Dumbledore’s strict instructions. Ron chimed in with how close she’d come to breaking them, as they’d written to each other over the past few weeks.

Harry hugged her back, and Hedwig alighted upon his shoulder, much to

Pigwidgeon’s delight. Hermione withdrew, ever mindful of the sharp beak the snowy owl possessed. Fleur saw then the cuts the lioness bore on her hands, and drew her wand and set to closing them quickly.

“Hello, Harry,” Fleur spoke up, carefully reading the wizard’s face. When she turned to heal Ron’s hand, for it bore the same marks, she saw no remorse in Harry’s eyes.

The young wizard returned her greeting, but seemed to be lost inside his own thoughts for the moment.

“Harry, we wanted to tell you, but Dumbledore made us—”

“Swear to secrecy, I know.”

“But, Harry we don’t know _why_ —”

And Harry lost his head. Fleur bristled beside Hermione but said nothing, for she had watched the rage build and smolder and knew the frustration and anger he felt must be released, lest he burst with it. Hermione visibly fought against her tears, willing them away, but several leaked through her defenses. Harry, upon turning, saw them run down her cheek, and paused. A long silence filled the room and Harry began pacing and asking questions.

“What is this place anyway?”

“Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix,” Ron answered at once.

“And what is that?”

“It’s a secret society,” Hermione said quickly, “Dumbledore founded it; he’s in charge. It’s the people that fought against You-Know-Who the last time.”

“Who’s in it?” He asked, pausing in his pacing.

“Quite a few people, we’ve only met a few.” Fleur spoke up, locking eyes with Harry. “Hermione and I only arrived today. I’m sorry for your struggles, Harry, but you have friends here who are confused just as you are, even if we do have the news you so desperately need. We don’t know the how’s and why’s, but we will find out with you.” The Veela’s voice was calm and low, free from any conviction or grudge held against the wizard. “Please, sit, and we’ll tell you what we know,”

After a few more rounds of pacing, the lion sat, took a breath and asked, “What about Voldemort? What’s he up to? _Where_ is he, and what are we doing to stop him?”

“Fred and George have had to fill us in on some things,” Fleur admitted. “Since Ron is underage and Hermione and I just got here, we haven’t heard much ourselves.  

“Yeah, they invented Extendable Ears,” Ron picked up excitedly, “It’s exactly what it sounds like, mate, but Mum found out and went berserk. We had to hide what we had left to keep her from binning them. George told us that some Order members are following Death Eaters, keeping tabs on them, and some of them are even recruiting people to the Order and they’re guarding something, they always talk about guard duty.”

Harry snorted. “They were talking about me, Ron.”

The redheaded boy looked down, frowning with the air of a child who’d had the correct answer in front of them the whole time. Harry rose and began pacing again.

“What have you two been doing all summer then? You said you’d been busy.”

“Fleur and I had some things to take care of with the Veela, they’re always busy around the beginning of summer. We tried sending for you if you wanted to join us, but our letters about _that_ apparently never got through…”

Harry’s eyebrows rose. “You tried sending for me?”

Fleur nodded. “Several times actually, but we never got a reply or even an acknowledgement that you’d ever received our letters until one of us got one back, but then it was just questions we couldn’t answer, as if we’d never invited you.”

Harry went over to his trunk and rummaged through it, pulling out a few letters from Hermione. Sure enough, there in her neat scribble, was an invitation to Fleur’s parent’s house, and an explanation of the safety the Veelas had built there.

“I don’t recalling reading any of this… Did Ron go with you?”

“No, mate, I’ve been here nearly all summer. Mum dragged me along to help clean out the place,” Ron answered, “I hope I can, at the very least, get out of here before the scent of rot and mold grows too attached to me,”

“Of course the invitation is still offered, should we ever be allowed to leave,” Fleur said chuckling.

With a loud _CRACK,_ and the Weasley twins materialized in the center of the room. Ron’s eyebrows twitched with irritation.

“Hello, Harry,” said George, beaming at him.

“We thought we heard you down here,” Fred followed.

“It’s not healthy to bottle feelings, go on and let them out!”

“Yeah, there might be an elderly couple fifty miles down the way didn’t hear you,”

“So you passed your Apparation tests, then?” Harry asked.

“With distinction!” said Fred, who was fiddling with a long, flesh colored cord. “Anyway,” Fred continued, seeing Ron’s mouth open to retort, “You’re interfering with reception, Harry. Extendable Ears,” He added, lifting the string.

“You’ll want to be careful,” Hermione warned. “Molly’s been on the warpath, and if she sees another one…”

“Well worth the risk,” George piped, “Major meeting they’re having.”

The door opened to admit Ginny, whose long red hair had been tied back into a ponytail. “Oh, hello, Harry.” Her eyes shifted to her twin mentors in mischief. “Mum’s went and put an Imperturbable Charm on the kitchen door, it’s a no-go.”

“How can you tell?”

“Tonks told me how to find out,” Ginny answered. “You just chuck stuff at the door and if it can’t make contact, the door’s been Imperturbed. I’ve been flicking Dungbombs at it from the top of the stairs and they just soar away from it, so there’s no way the Extendable Ears will be able to get under the gap.”

Fred heaved a deep sigh of defeat. “Shame. I really fancied finding out what old Snape’s been up to.” Hermione’s brows pulled together in question, Fleur leaned forward intently after hearing the trio’s suspicions about the professor.

“Snape?” Harry said quickly. “Is he here?”

“Yeah,” said George, closing the door and sitting upon one of the beds, his twin and sister following suit. “Giving a report of some kind, top secret.”

Words of distaste were exchanged about the man in question.

“What about Bill? I haven’t seen him here, is he still working in Egypt?” Hermione spoke up.

“He applied for a desk job so he could come home and work for the Order,” Said Fred.

“Charlie’s in the Order too,” said George. “but he’s still in Romania, Dumbledore wants as many foreign wizards brought in as possible, so Charlie’s trying to make contacts on his days off.”

“Couldn’t Percy do that?” Harry asked. The last they’d heard, the third Weasley brother was working in the Department of International Magical Cooperation at the Ministry. At this question, the Weasley siblings exchanged dark looks with one another.

“Whatever you do, don’t mention Percy in front of Mum or Dad,” Ron said, looking at the other two Gryffindors and the Veela.

“Why not?” Hermione asked.

“Because every time Percy’s name’s mentioned, Dad breaks whatever he’s holding and Mum starts crying,” Fred said.

“What happened?” Harry said.

“He and Dad had a row.” said Fred. “I’ve never seen Dad row with anyone like that. It’s normally Mum who shouts…”

The Weasleys then recounted the story beginning to end, how Percy was left in charge by Crouch who had been under the control of Voldemort himself. Then, even after reporting nothing of abnormal behavior to a superior, was offered a high position in the Ministry who was making certain no one was to have any dealings with Dumbledore, and to clean their desks if they were. Percy had even went as far as saying his father’s ‘lack of ambition and lousy reputation’ was why the family had always had hard financial times.

“He’s been putting too much stock and store into the _Daily Prophet,_ Harry. They’re writing articles smashing Dumbledore and you, but I’m sure you’ve read all about those…” Ron trailed off.

“What? No, I only looked for articles about Voldemort,” everyone except Fleur shuddered at the name. “What have they been saying about me?”

The group looked most unwilling to continue. “They’re… they’re making you out to be a standing joke, Harry,” Fleur said quietly. “Rita Skeeter has kept her promise, but the foundation she built has already been laid, and now, other journalists are taking advantage of it. They’re saying you’re just some star-struck hero looking for attention by crying wolf. It’s unfair and far from the truth, Harry we know it is but they’re not stopping. They’re trying to keep everyone in line and calm, and it’s a fruitless effort, we know.”

Harry opened his mouth and the Veela saw the rage building in his eyes again. She clasped his face in her hands and met his eyes with a hard stare. “Listen to me, Harry. Listen. _We_ know the truth because we’ve lived it and accepted it. Those pathetic invertebrates do not. They do not want the truth because they’re afraid of it. They do not want another war, and by acting like everything’s all hunky-dory, they can push the thought from their minds but it doesn’t make the threat _any less real_. I was with you. I fought Crouch, although I didn’t know it was him at the time. I tried to get to you, and I’m so terribly sorry I failed. I should have been looking for Viktor, I should have thought he would have been controlled, but I didn’t and that was my downfall, and those wrong actions brought you down with me and brought Voldemort back from the dead.

“I cannot apologize firmly enough and I cannot make it up. But I will fight, as I fought that night, and I will prove your honesty.” The Veela’s eyes sparkled within their depths, shifting to look at each of Harry’s eyes. The promise of her words was fully supported by her eyes, for uncertainty or false clarity had no place in her stare. 

The young wizard drew a deep breath, and blinked once. The muscles in his jaw relaxed under Fleur’s hands, and she pulled him into a hug, nearly crushing his ribcage.

“I understand your anger, but we really did try our hardest. It wasn’t easy for anyone.” She whispered. Beside her ear, she heard his teeth click as his jaw clenched, but he nodded nonetheless. She patted his back as they released one another, and after they’d parted, Mrs. Weasley happily announced dinnertime from the door.  

Upon arriving in the kitchen, after a rather unpleasant introduction with Sirius’s mother’s portrait, Fleur was greeted by Sirius and introduced to Remus Lupin and Mundungus Fletcher, the former of which was asleep with his head resting on the kitchen table.  Papers were sprawled out, and Bill was quick to tidy up, magicking them away safely. Mrs. Weasley began mumbling quietly to herself about how clean-up should be considered part of the meetings, and only when that was finished was the meeting over.

After a nice, hot dinner, and a particularly frightening encounter with the Weasley trickster twins flaunting their new magical legality (as well as Tonks’ clumsy nature), Fleur sat back in her chair, content with a full belly and a glass of wine. Hermione was at her side, looking very much like her in terms of satisfaction, and the Veela introduced her to wine-tasting. The Gryffindor found she enjoyed the scent of the drink rather than the taste, and settled in for a butterbeer instead.

The atmosphere in the little kitchen was sleepily relaxed, Mrs. Weasley had leaned back in her chair, yawning occasionally, small talk broke the silence between a few people, and Ginny had taken to the floor to roll butterbeer corks around for Crookshanks to chase after.

“Nearly time for bed, I think,” Mrs. Weasley said, heaving another yawn.

“Not just yet, Molly,” Sirius said, pushing away his plate and turning to look at Harry. “You know, I’m surprised at you. I thought the first thing you’d do when you got here would be to start asking questions about Voldemort.” The atmosphere of the room changed with last word uttered. Mrs. Weasley sat up, stopping mid-yawn; Ginny’s butterbeer cork rolled across the floor neglected; Fleur looked up in interest, Hermione following her gaze. Even the twins seemed to pause to glance at their mother, whose face was reddening.

Harry hesitated, but answered his godfather readily. “I did! I asked Ron, Fleur, and Hermione, but no one had any real information, Ron said we weren’t allowed in the Order—”

“And he’s quite right,” Said Mrs. Weasley. “You’re too young.” Her gaze flitted over to Fleur, but she said nothing of her being of age. She sat ridged in her chair, her hands balled into fists.

“Since when did someone have to be in the Order to ask questions?” Asked Sirius. “He’s been trapped inside that Muggle house all summer, he deserves to know what’s been happ—”

“Hang on, we’ve been asking questions all summer too, and you haven’t answered our questions!” George protested loudly.

“It’s not my fault you haven’t been told what the Order’s been doing,” Sirius said calmly. “That’s your parents’ decision. Harry, on the other hand—”

Mrs. Weasley’s normally kind face was contorted with anger as she sharply interrupted Sirius. An argument broke out around the table, while Fleur, Hermione, Harry, and the Weasley siblings watched carefully, the fate of their future knowledge of the Oder unfolding before them in the words exchanged. Molly looked furious, Sirius defensive, and Lupin seemed to be biding his time before he spoke.

“Personally,” Lupin spoke up at last. “I believe it is better for him to hear the truth from us—not the all the facts, Molly, just the general picture, rather than a mixture of distortion from… _others._ ”

Molly was far from pacified, and everyone knew it. Her lip curled slightly, her eyes shining. Sirius sank back down into his chair, his face ash-white.

“I think Harry should be allowed to speak from himself as well. Harry?”

The young wizard answered without hesitation. “I want to know what’s going on.”

Mrs. Weasley nearly looked betrayed. “Fine. Ginny — Ron — Fred — George — Hermione — Fleur — I want you all out of this kitchen, now.”

With the order, those mentioned gave their objections, and one by one, they were shot down by the Weasley matriarch.

“With all due respect, Mrs. Weasley,” Fleur spoke up. “I am of age and out of school. I will not leave.”

“And if Fleur and Harry don’t leave, they’ll tell me, and Ron, and everyone else everything anyway. It’s pointless to send us away!” Hermione spoke up, her eyes flicking to the Veela. Fleur nodded beside her, confirming her alliance.

“Fine!” Mrs. Weasley shouted, throwing her hands up in defeat. “Ginny! Bed! NOW!”

Ginny did not go quietly. They could hear her clomping up the stairs, followed by the loud screams of the portrait of Mrs. Black. Lupin excused himself to close her curtains, and when he returned, Sirius spoke.

“What do you want to know, Harry?”

Harry shot off several questions, each of which were answered in turn. As Fleur lay in bed a few hours later, she listened as Hermione relayed the information to Ginny, who would be sharing their quarters since another bedroom had yet been made up for her.

“So he’s building an army again, attempting to infiltrate the Ministry, who are making Dumbledore out to be an attention-starved teenager of an old wizard by themselves, and we think he’s searching for a weapon?”

Hermione nodded silently.

“Wow. That’s ridiculous. Dumbledore becoming Minister? Jesus, Fudge, what are you thinking? As far as _he_ goes…” Ginny trailed off for a moment. “I don’t know what to think about that…”

“Neither do we,” Fleur spoke up from Hermione’s side. “But it’s getting late, and I can hear someone coming up the stairs; I think it’s safe to guess it’s your mother,” Sure enough, moments after the younger Gryffindor had extinguished her candle, footfalls sounded outside the door. They paused for a moment, no doubt pressing an ear to the wood, before continuing down the hall. A few minutes later, they sounded again, quietly returning to the ground floor.

Ginny let out a sigh. “Good job, ‘Mione. Keep this one around, with ears like that,” she chuckled, trying to muffle the sound as best she could.

Fleur smiled as she could nearly hear Hermione’s eyes rolling at the other girl. “Go to sleep, Ginny. We have a lot of cleaning to do tomorrow.”

After wishing them good night, Ginny’s voice pierced the silence again. “Thank you, ‘Mione, for telling me everything. It means a lot.”

Hermione dismissed her thanks in a friendly fashion. “You deserve to know as much as we did. I know your mum’s trying to protect you, but some things need to be known.”

The room fell silent again, and Fleur curled around Hermione protectively. The brunette had taken to holding the Veela as of late, but tonight Fleur was not allowing it. The thought of her lioness being put to danger or death at the hands of Voldemort was unthinkable, and even in sleep she would not allow harm to come to her.

When she was sure Ginny was asleep, Hermione whispered lowly into the darkness. “Are you joining the Order, Fleur?”

A soft sigh was drawn from the Frenchwoman. “I’m considering.”

“Why don’t you? If you do, then we’ll know more, we can do mor—”

“Hermione, if I choose to join, I cannot tell you everything, as much as I might wish it. Please, do not expect me to be the middle-man here. Beyond that, I don’t want you getting into any more trouble or danger… I would never forgive myself…” Even though the words were barely a whisper, they carried a dark weight with them that sat heavily in the Veela’s heart and pained the Gryffindor to hear.

“Of course not, Fleur, but we do have a right to know some things…”

“And I will tell you those ‘some things’ if my secrecy isn’t sworn. When I join, it will only be for your safety. Nothing else.”

Hermione burrowed closer to the blonde, her warmth seeping into her bones as it had every night for weeks now. She nodded silently against her chest, kissing her apologies along Fleur’s neck and cheek, surprised to find a tear running along her skin. Fleur held Hermione tightly against her, her jaw locked into place.

“I know with his return, you will be taken from me somehow. You’ll go off to fight, with or without me and I cannot stop you. I cannot allow him to take you from me, Hermione.”

The Gryffindor ducked her head beneath Fleur’s chin again, nodding solemnly. “I’m not going anywhere, dearest.” For several long moments, the Veela’s hold did not relax, but when it did, Hermione kissed her lips with a tender, strong force. Into that kiss she poured the contents of her heart and soul alike, a voiceless promise to the Veela that would never be broken or infringed. Hermione fell into a dreamless sleep wrapped in Fleur’s embrace, but the piercing blue eyes stayed open for hours after, weighing every possibility and every outcome before finally making the decision to join the Order of the Phoenix.


	18. Prayers and Preludes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, guys! This is the last chapter of Dusk of Summer! Thank you all for following this fic, and I promise you there's more to come, so don't worry or fret! All will be well! So have at it, have fun, and let me know what you think!  
> Much love,  
> RC

The trial weighed upon them all as it loomed near. The little family had cleaned out most of the house, and now they were congregated in the drawing room. Mad-Eye Moody had taken care of a boggart in a writing-desk, doxies had been sprayed out of the curtains, and now, Sirius held a large sack in his hand, unceremoniously dumping anything bearing the Black family crest, motto, or any family members, no matter how distant. Kreacher entered the room multiple times, desperate to save anything from Sirius’s purge.

“Filthy blood-traitors, half-breeds, and Mudbloods, what would Kreacher’s mistress say? Oh, my poor mistress…” He muttered under his breath. Fleur bristled dangerously, Hermione touched her arm gently and offered a reassuring smile that wasn’t returned. Before she could speak, Sirius barked, ordering him out of the room and to drop what he was holding.

“You really should be nicer to him, Sirius. It could really help your relationship.”

“I doubt anything will help the relationship with anyone, Hermione,” Sirius sighed. “After being left here for years by himself, carrying out mad orders from my mother’s portrait, I’m sure whatever sense he had is gone now.” He fell silent and continued shoving items into the sack. The drawing room was completed with a few more sacks, and they moved to an upstairs bathroom, in which Tonks was called to assist with a nasty ghoul stuck in the toilet.

 

That night, during dinner, Mrs. Weasley turned to Harry and said, “I’ve ironed your best clothes for tomorrow, Harry. I want you to wash your hair tonight, too.” They all stopped talking and looked over at the two of them. Time had passed so quickly, no one had given a thought to the dementor attack or the hearing.

Harry visibly swallowed and asked how he was going to get there. The matter was discussed quickly, with the realization that Dumbledore had visited the previous night. Harry excused himself hurriedly, his plate only half-empty. The others followed in pursuit, Hermione went over the laws again, telling him things to remember and what to say. He never spoke a word of how betrayed he felt that his headmaster had visited and without giving as much as a glance at him or a word of advice. They parted to bed at Harry’s request, and saw him off the next morning, their hearts swollen with sympathy as they joined together for a hug.

After the door closed behind him, Fleur released a breath.

“Good luck, Harry,” She whispered, praying silently to the gods. She turned and smiled at Hermione, taking her hand and leading her away from the door.

 

 

When Harry returned, it was with great news, but dark tidings. It seemed Lucius Malfoy was in league with the Ministry, even after he’d told Fudge about Malfoy’s association with the Death Eaters.

“We’ll tell Dumbledore about Malfoy,” Sirius said at once.

Mr. Weasley excused himself to leave once more, heading off to a bewitched toilet in Bethnal Green, unable to offer any insight to the matter. He clapped Harry on the shoulder as he passed

“Come, now, Harry have some lunch.” Mrs. Weasley piped up. “You hardly ate breakfast this morning.” As one, they all sat down around the table and dug in.

“I knew you’d be cleared,” Ron said around a mouthful of mashed potatoes. “As soon as Dumbledore turned up, there was _no way_ they were going to convict you.”

“I wish he would have talked to me. Or _looked_ at me, even.” As he said the words, he clapped his hand to his scar, a movement Fleur had never seen before and took great interest.

“Everything alright, Harry?” She asked softly.

“Scar,” He mumbled. “But it’s nothing. It burns all the time now…” He trailed off, but Fleur’s eyes kept up their study. The scar had adopted a reddened, irritated color that was painful just to see. The others seemed nearly oblivious to the action, and it was soon forgotten as they all gathered to scrub out a moldy cupboard on an upper floor.

Living at headquarters was rather boring, but they did get to meet more of the members as time wore on. Even with the conviction that she was going to join, Fleur kept the secret to herself, confiding in Lupin of her decision and her wish to keep it secret. The wizard nodded, understanding how worried Hermione would be if, or after rather, she learned of the danger the Order members frequently found themselves in.

After the cupboard had been thoroughly scrubbed, the three were lounging in Ron and Harry’s shared room, when an owl tapped insistently at a window. The bird was let in and its burden lifted; the booklists for the following year at Hogwarts had finally arrived. Hermione opened one envelope and read over the list quickly.

“Only two new ones,” She said, loud enough to gain the attention of the two young wizards. “ _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Five,_ by Miranda Goshawk and _Defensive Magical Theory,_ by Wilbert Slinkhard.” Before she’d finished her sentence, the twins Apparated into the room, the action so often now no one jumped in surprise.

“We were just wondering who assigned the Slinkhard book,” Fred said.

“Because it means Dumbledore’s found a new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher,” George finished.

“And about time too,” Fred continued.

“What do you mean?” Harry asked.

“Well, we overheard Mum and Dad talking on the Extendables a few weeks back. And from what they were saying, Dumbledore was having real trouble finding anyone to do the job this year.”

“That’s not surprising, considering what’s happened to the others the last four years,” Hermione piped.

“Yeah, one dead, one’s memory removed, one sacked and one locked in a trunk for nine months.” Harry said, ticking them off his fingers.

“Hell, I wouldn’t do it, after hearing that,” Fleur said, looking down at her hands. Harry elbowed her playfully, a small smile playing on his lips.

“What’s up with you, Ron?” Asked Fred, eyeing Ron, who was standing ridged, his mouth agape, staring at his letter from Hogwarts.

“What’s the matter?” Fred said impatiently, looking over his shoulder at the parchment, his mouth falling open too.

“Prefect?” He wheezed. George leapt over to the pair, seizing the envelope and tipping it over. Something red and gold fell out into George’s palm. _“Prefect?”_

“No one in their right mind…” Fred glanced at Harry skeptically before holding the letter to light as though to look for a watermark. “I suppose it could have been all the mad stuff last year, with the Triwizard,” He said to George.

“Yeah, he got into too much trouble,” George said slowly. “At least one of them has their priorities straight,”

Harry said nothing, but just then, Hermione opened her second envelope, the same red and gold object fell from it. She glanced at Harry, who had remained silent, his eyes connected with Ron’s as though communicating things that couldn’t be said. Ron’s face had flushed darkly, and he held out the badge to Harry as though he was asking for affirmation. Harry handed it back to him with a nod.

Just then, Mrs. Weasley bustled in, carrying a pile of fresh laundry into the room. “Ginny said the booklists had arrived,” She said, glancing at the envelopes as she made her way over to a bed and began sorting the clothes into two piles. “If you give them to me, I’ll take them over to Diagon Alley this afternoon and get your books while you’re packing. Ron, I’ll have to get you more pajamas, these are at least six inches too short, I can’t believe how fast you’re growing… what color would you like?”

“Get him red and gold to match his badge,” George said with a smirk.

“His what?” Mrs. Weasley asked, rolling up a pair of maroon socks and placing them on Ron’s pile.

“His _badge_ ,” Fred said heavily, “His lovely, shiny, new _prefect’s badge_.”

Fred’s words took a moment to sink into Mrs. Weasley’s thoughts. She blundered for a moment, and eventually, Ron held up the badge to stop to confusion. His mother let out a shriek and rushed over to her youngest son.

“I can’t believe it! I don’t believe it! How wonderful! That’s everyone in the family!” Fred and George exchanged a glance as she threw her arms around Ron.

“What are George and I? Next-door neighbors?”

His comment went ignored and Mrs. Weasley continued praising Ron and saying over and over again how proud he made her. If Ron’s face was red before, it was purple now.

“Oh, what’ll it be? Percy got an owl, but you’ve already got one of course,” Ron looked at her strangely, as if he didn’t believe her. Sirius called for Fleur, and the blonde rose dutifully, congratulating Ron and her girlfriend, who had been completely silent throughout the procession, unsure of what to say to Harry, if anything should be said at all.

Mrs. Weasley eventually bustled out of the room, on a mission to purchase a broomstick for Ron and retrieve the school supplies. Ron followed her out the door shortly after to tell her he preferred the Cleansweep. That left Hermione and Harry alone in the room together, the silence thick and choked.

“Harry, would you like a moment alone?” she asked softly. He nodded curtly, his face plastered with an unreadable expression. “Could I borrow Hedwig for a moment?”

“Take her.” He said, his voice low and hearty. Hermione called the snowy owl down and opened the door to leave. She paused for a moment, but continued out and shut the door again wordlessly.

In the shared room with Fleur and Ginny, she wrote a letter to her parents, and was just sending Hedwig on her way when Fleur walked in.

“How is he?” she asked softly.

Hermione sighed before answering. “Not happy… so much has happened, and so much has changed, I don’t know if he knows how to deal with it. And I don’t know how to help him.”

“Give him some time, mon amour.” The Veela whispered, her hands rubbing the Gryffindor’s shoulders gently. “He’ll be fine, just needs a moment to himself. Hey, I have an idea…” She kissed Hermione’s cheek gently, smiling. “Let’s go to my parent’s for a while tonight. We can go down to the beach, have a bonfire, relax a bit, hm? The last night before term starts?”

Hermione sighed longingly, leaning into Fleur’s hands and she loosened the tense muscles there. “That does sound most intriguing…”

“Yes, and perhaps some wine, just a bit, Prefect, nothing too strong,” she added chuckling. “I wouldn’t want to be placed in detention…”

Hermione turned sharply, a glint in her eye. “On the contrary, I think you would enjoy it to the fullest extent, Miss Delacour.” She growled, rising from her chair, one hand pressed against the blonde’s chest as she forced her to a wall.

“I believe you may be right, if detention involves this kind of activity…” Hermione chuckled lowly, reaching up to kiss Fleur. She drew her lip into her mouth and bit gently, resisting the urge to smile when she felt the blonde’s breasts rise with a sharply taken breath. The lioness pulled away abruptly, Fleur’s fingers plunged into her hair and tried to bring her lips back to her own.

“Oh no, that will be your punishment, dearest,” Hermione laughed, fighting harder against the blonde.

“Oh? You forget I’m stronger than you, amour,” She growled, lifting the other witch up into her arms and carrying her to the bed. The lioness didn’t go without fight, but ended up beneath the Veela anyway. Fleur claimed her lips again, a low growl in her chest. But Hermione wasn’t quite finished fighting, and soon had straddled the other’s hips, pinning her hands over her head.

“We should do this more often,” Fleur said breathlessly, her eyes dark. “You shouldn’t be up there.”

“Well it’s where I’m going to stay,” She growled in return. Hermione lowered her head and allowed her tongue to plunge into the other’s mouth, surprising her as her hips rose up against the brunette’s. Hermione smiled, and pulled away, bounding out of the room. Fleur lay on her back, her heart pounding in her chest. With a wistful smile, she too rose, and followed her love out the door.

 

Mrs. Weasley threw a small dinner party in honor of Hermione and Ron’s rise to prefects. The dinner was early, as the Weasley matriarch had returned much sooner than expected, and after the other guests had departed, the sun was beginning to sink off in the horizon.  

“Just have them back before midnight, Fleur, I trust you can handle that?”

“Of course, Mrs. Weasley.” Fleur promised. One by one, she Apparated away with everyone, and reinsured her promise to Mrs. Weasley.

 

With a flick of her wand, Fleur set the fire to burn. A cheer was brought up from the group, where they sat upon large slabs of rock. Fred and George brought out a bottle of firewhiskey, which was met with another cheer and Fleur’s swearing to Hermione that she had no idea. Hermione disregarded the notion and actually took Fleur’s wine from her. Each twin took a swig and shivered at the burn before offering it to everyone else. Fleur sipped from a bottle of wine after reclaiming it from Hermione (who found this particular bottle preferable to the one she’d tasted before), insisting that she could hold her wine, but not her whiskey and reminded them of the timeline she had.

“Well we’d better get sauced up now so we can be sober when we go home!” George roared, taking another swig.

The bottles were soon empty and they had hours left to spend. The buzz in their heads ebbed off and marshmallows were skewered and roasted. Friendly laughter and chitchat echoed through the night, making Fleur even more thankful for her family’s own privet beaches.

“We should come here more often, George,” Fred piped up.

“Oh yeah, if only we could get into the wine cellars, Fred, but even so, I think it’s a suitable place for two young bachelors, what do you think, Fleur?” George laughed, throwing one arm over Fleur’s shoulders.

The Veela laughed back, slapping playfully at George’s chest. “I offered a place for you, it just took you until now to get here!”

“Well, I’m going to try to find more wine,” Fred insisted, getting up and running towards the trees.

“Oh, no you don’t!” Fleur yelled, resisting George’s grip and broke free, racing over the sand barefooted. She charged after the redheaded god of mischief, and drew her wand sharply, levitating him back to the campfire. She unceremoniously dropped Fred onto the sand, her body unsatisfied and filled with a renewed longing to run.

“You wouldn’t find it anyway,” Fleur laughed. Fred picked himself up and brushed off the sand with a chuckle.

“What do you say for a dip in the ocean?” Harry said, finishing his current marshmallow.

“I’m up for it!” Ginny roared, the only one who hadn’t been allowed to drink, charging into the lapping waves, followed by her brothers.  

Fleur leapt up, dragging Hermione with her, but not towards the waves. They ran across the beaches barefooted, racing the setting sun, which was more than reluctant to give way to twilight. The sun clung to the horizon, painting it in brilliant colors of red, orange, and pink, while the ever-encroaching dusk seeped into it darker hues of purple and blue.

They collapsed down on the sand together, Hermione falling atop the blonde’s chest, a wide smile on her lips as she kissed the Veela lovingly. They lay on their backs, staring up at the sky together, sighs filling the short-lived silence.

“God, this is perfect, and Harry certainly seems to be handling things better,” Hermione sighed heavily. “I wish we could have spent more time here, with everyone,” She whispered, casting a fond glance at the others where they splashed in the sea. “With you…” She kissed Fleur again.

“We’ll always have next summer, dear.” The Veela returned, pulling Hermione back down for another kiss. “And the summer after that,” another kiss. “And the summer after that…”

The Gryffindor finally pulled back, looking deep into the blonde’s eyes as they lay together. Her eyes held tears which were fought against of course, but some forced passage and fell against the blonde’s patient hand.

“Dearest…” Fleur murmured. “Please, we’ll be fine. Veelas and Gryffindors are very stubborn, you know. Continental separation couldn’t keep us apart.”

“I know, I’m not sad, I’m happy. So very, very happy, and I’ve had the audacity to go this long without thanking you,” She sniffled softly.

Fleur sat up, taking Hermione’s face in her hands and kissed her again. “You don’t need to thank me for anything. I’ve enjoyed the time we’ve spent together, I feel like I should be thanking you.” Fleur felt her own tears welling and choked them down. “Please, Hermione. Let’s focus on just being together, the rest can wait for tomorrow.” The Veela held her tightly, her thoughts unfaithful to her words. She felt as though she’d already lost Hermione, with barely enough to hold on.

Hermione curled into the blonde’s side, looking up at the sky.

“The sunset is beautiful,” she whispered, still sniffling.

“It is,” Fleur returned, and with a nostalgic smile, pointed to Polaris as it was the first to show. “The dusk of summer,” she sighed heavily. “It always catches me off guard.” Fleur turned her head back down the beach, where their absence was finally noted loudly by George. “I must apologize, Hermione, but it appears as if they know we’re gone,” Fleur sighed, rising up from the ground. The lioness was reluctant, but followed, taking the Veela’s proffered hand. The sky was now a dark blue, the stars shining out proudly. Fleur drew the other witch into her arms and pressed a long, tender kiss to her lips, and together, they raced back to the fire, and until midnight, they stayed there, laughing so loudly the chilling night echoed back their howling mirth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, there you have it! I would like to encourage you all to listen to the song Dusk and Summer by Dashboard Confessional and see what memories the song brings back. Please let me know what it made you think of, in relation to this fic; I’m dying to know. Also, for future reference, other themes from Dusk and Summer will be used in the following sister works, so keep your eye out! I couldn’t have bothered with a simple little fic, I had to make it more literary, didn't I? Well, I for one have no regrets! Foreshadowing, soliloquy, symbolism, figurative speech, they’re all too tempting! Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this work. The sequel, Cadence of the Rain, will be ready to go here shortly, maybe even on schedule. Bear in mind that I didn’t spend half as much time with Cadence as I did with Dusk. Two and a half years opposed to six months… it won’t be rocky, since the foundation was firmly planted with Dusk, but every writer has their worries. Feel free to shoot a message my way if you like!


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